Stories and interludes

.ND

STORIES AND INTERLUDES

BY

BARRY PAIN

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1892

Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.

TO

A. K L.

My thanks are due to the Editors of " The English Illustrated
Magazine," " The Illustrated London News," " Black and White,"
" The Speaker," " 77ie National Observer," " 77« Granta," and
" 77ie Gentlewoman " 'for permission to reprint several things in
this volume.

•\

CO^TESTTS

PAGE

I. — THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS, . . 1
II.— EXCHANGE:—

1. Doris, 20

2. Major Gunnical, 28

3. Doris in the Hereafter, . . 34
Interlude : A Man and a God, ... 40

III.— RURAL SIMPLICITY, .... 42

IV. — CONCEALED ART, .... .62

Interlude : TJie Devil's Auction, ... 83

V.— WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD, . 85

VI.— THE MAGIC MORNING, 98

Interlude : My Lady's Lilies, . . .114

VII.— "JADIS," 115

Interlude : Tlie Bird Cage, .... 123

VIII.— THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND, . . .126

Interlude : TJie Bat and the Devil, . .135

IX.— Two POETS, 137

Interlude : Ainigmata, .... 144

PAGE

VI CONTENTS

X.— WHITE NIGHTS :—

1. The Story of Una and Altera, , . 146

2. The Story of the Ferryman, . . . 159

3. The Story of Sybil, 169

4. The Story of the Captive, . . .176

5. The Story of an Experiment, . . 184

6. The Story of a Picture, . . . .193

STORIES AND INTERLUDES

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS

LUCAS MORNE sat in his college rooms, when
the winter afternoon met the evening, depressed
and dull. There were various reasons for his
depression. He was beginning to be a little
nervous about his health. A week before he
had run second in a mile race, the finish of which
had been a terrible struggle ; ever since then
any violent exertion or excitement had brought
on symptoms which were painful, and to one
who had always been strong, astonishing. He
had ^felt them early that afternoon, on coming
from the river. Besides, he was discontented
with himself. He had had several men in his
rooms that afternoon, who were better than he
was, men who had enthusiasms and had found
them satisfying. Lucas had a moderate de-
votion to athletics, but no great enthusiasm.
Neither had he the finer perceptions. Neither
was he a scholar. He was just an ordinary
man, and reputed to be a good fellow.

His visitors had drunk his tea, talked of their
1

INTERLUDES

own enthusiasms, and were now gone. Noth-
ing is so unclean as a used tea-cup ; nothing is
so cold as toast which has once been hot, and
the concrete expression of dejection is crumbs.
Even Lucas Morne, who had not the finer per-
ceptions, was dimly conscious that his room
had become horrible, and now flung open the
window. One of the men — a large, clumsy
man — had been smoking mitigated Latakia;
and Latakia has a way of rolling itself all round
the atmosphere and kicking. Lucas seated
himself in his easiest chair.

His rooms were near the chapel, and he could
hear the organ. The music and the soft fall of
the darkness were soothing ; he could hardly see
the used tea-cups now ; the light from the gas-
lamp outside came just a little way into the
room, shyly and obliquely.

Well, he had not noticed it before, but the
fireplace had become a staircase. He felt too
lazy to wonder much at this. He would, he
thought, have the things all altered back again
on the morrow. It would be worth while to
sell the staircase, seeing that its steps were
fashioned of silver and crystal. Unfortunately
he could not see how much there was of it, or
whither it led. The first five steps were clear
enough; he felt convinced that the workman-

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 3

ship of them was Japanese. But the rest of the
staircase was hidden from his sight by a gray
veil of mist. He found himself a little angry,
in a severe and strictly logical way, that in
these days of boasted science we could not pre-
vent a piece of fog, measuring ten feet by seven,
from coming in at an open window and sitting
down on a staircase which had only just begun
to exist, and blotting out all but five steps of it
in its very earliest moments. He allowed that
it was a beautiful mist; its color changed
slowly from gray to rose, and then back again
from rose to gray ; fire-flies of silver and gold
shot through it at intervals ; but it was a nui-
sance, because he wanted to see the rest of the
staircase, and it prevented him. Every moment
the desire to see more grew stronger. At last
he determined to shake off his laziness, and go
up the staircase and through the mist into the
something beyond. He felt sure that the some-
thing beyond would be beautiful — sure with
the certainty which has nothing to do with log-
ical conviction.

It seemed to him that it was with an effort
that he brought himself to rise from the chair
and walk to the foot of that lovely staircase.
He hesitated there for a moment or two, and as
he did so he heard the sound of footsteps, high
up, far away, yet coming nearer and nearer,
with light music in the sound of them. Some

4 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

one was coming down the staircase. He listened
eagerly and excitedly. Then through the gray
mist came a figure robed in gray.

It was the figure of a woman — young, with
wonderful grace in her movements. Her face
was veiled, and all that could be seen of her as
she paused on the fifth step was the soft, dark
hair that reached to her waist, and her arms —
white wonders of beauty. The rest was hidden
by the gray veil, and the long gray robe, that
left, however, their suggestion of classical grace
and slenderness. Lucas Morne stood looking
at her tremulously. He felt sure, too, that she
was looking at him, and that she could see
through the folds of the thin gray veil that hid
her face. She was the first to speak. Her
voice in its gentleness and delicacy was like
the voice of a child ; it was only afterward that
he heard in it the under-thrill which told of
more than childhood.

"Why have you not come? I have been
waiting for you, you know, up there. And
this is the only time," she added.

"I am very sorry," he stammered. "You
see — I never knew the staircase was there until
to-day. In fact — it seerns very stupid of me—
but I always thought it was a fireplace. I
must have been dreaming, of course. And
then this afternoon I thought, or dreamed, that
a lot of men came in to see me. Perhaps

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 5

they really did come; and we got talking, you

know "

"Yes," she said, with the gentlest possible
interruption. "I do know. There was one
man, Fynsale, large, ugly, clumsy, a year your
senior. He sat in that chair over there, and
sulked, and smoked Latakia. I rather like the
smell of Latakia. He especially loves to write
or to say some good thing ; and at times he can
do it. Therefore, you envy him. Then there
was Blake. Blake is an athlete, like yourself,
but is just a little more successful. Yes, I know
you are good, but Blake is very good. You
were tried for the 'Varsity — Blake was selected.
He and Fynsale both have delight in ability,
and you envy both. There was that dissenting
little Paul Reece. He is not exactly in your
set, but you were at school with him, and so
you tolerate him. How good he is, for all his
insignificance and social defects ! Blake knows
that, and kept a guard on his talk this after-
noon. He would not offend Paul Reece for
worlds. Paul's belief gives him earnestness,
his earnestness leads him to self-sacrifice, and
self-sacrifice is deep delight to him. You have
more ability than Paul Reece, but you cannot
reach that kind of enthusiastic happiness, and
therefore you envy him. I could -say similar
things of the other men. It was because they
made you vaguely dissatisfied with yourself that

6 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

they bored you. You take pleasure — a certain
pleasure — in athletics, and that pleasure would
become an enthusiastic delight if you were a
little better at them. Some men could get the
enthusiastic delight out of as much as you can
do, but your temperament is different. I know
you well. You are not easily satisfied. You

are not clever, but you are " She paused,

but without any sign of embarrassment.

"What am I?" he asked eagerly. He felt
sure that it would be something good, and he
was not less vain than other men.

" I do not think I will say — not now."

"But who are you?" His diffidence and
stammering had vanished beneath her calm,
quiet talk. " You must let me at least ask that.
Who are you ? And how do you know all this ? "

" I am a woman, but not an earth- woman.
And the chief difference between us is that I
know nearly all the things you do not know,
and you do not know nearly all the things that
I know. Sometimes I forget your ignorance —
do not be angry for a word ; there is no other
for it, and it is not your fault. I forgot it just
now when I asked you why you had not come
to me up the staircase of silver and crystal,
through the gray veil where the fire-flies live,
and into that quiet room beyond. This* is the
only time ; to-morrow it will not be possible.
And I have " Once more she paused.

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 7

There was a charm for Lucas Morne in the
things which she did not say. " Your room is
dark," she continued, "and I can hardly see
you."

" I will light the lamp," said Lucas hurriedly ,
" and — and won't you let me get you some tea? "
He saw, as soon as he had said it, how unspeak-
ably ludicrous this proffer of hospitality was.
He almost fancied a smile, a moment's shim-
mer of little white teeth, beneath the long gray
veil. " Or shall I come now — at once? " he
added.

" Come now ; I will show you the mirror."

"What is that?"

" You will understand when you see it. It
is the glass of supreme moments. I shall tell
you about it. But come."

She looked graceful, and she suggested the
most perfect beauty as she stood there, a slight
figure against the background of gray mist,
which had grown luminous as the room below
grew darker. Lucas Morne went carefully up
the five steps, and together they passed through
the gray, misty curtain. He was wondering
what the face was like which was hidden be-
neath that veil ; would it be possible to induce
her to remove the veil? He might, perhaps,
lead the conversation thither — delicately and
subtly.

"A cousin of mine," he began, "who has

8 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

travelled a good deal, once told me that the
women of the East "

"Yes," she said, and her voice and way were
so gentle that it hardly seemed like an inter-
ruption; "and so do I."

He felt very much anticipated ; for a moment
he was driven back into the shy and stammer-
ing state. There were only a few more steps
now, and then they entered through a rosy cur-
tain into a room, which he supposed to be "that
quiet room beyond," of which she had spoken.

It was a large room, square in shape. The
floor was covered with black and white tiles,
with the exception of a small square space in
the centre, which looked like silver, and over
which a ripple seemed occasionally to pass.
She pointed it out to him. " That, " she said,
"is the glass of supreme moments." There
were no windows, and the soft light that filled
the room seemed to come from that liquid silver
mirror in the centre of the floor. The walls,
which were lofty, were hung with curtains of
different colors, all subdued, dreamy, reposeful.
These colors were repeated in the painting of
the ceiling. In a recess at the further end of
the room there were seats, low seats on which
one could sleep. There was a faint smell of
syringa in the air, making it heavy and drowsy.
Now and then one heard faintly, as if afar off,
the great music of an organ. Could it, he

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 9

found himself wondering, be the organ of the
college chapel? It was restful and pleasant to
hear. She drew him to one of the seats in the
recess, and once more pointed to the mirror.

" All the ecstasy in the world lies reflected
there. The supreme moments of each man's
life — the scene, the spoken words — all lie there.
Past and present, and future — all are there."

" Shall I be able to see them? "

"If you will."

"And how?"

" Bend over the mirror, and say the name of
the man or woman into whose life you wish to
see. You only have to want it, and it will
appear before your eyes. But there are some
lives which have no supreme moments. "

" Commonplace lives? "

"Yes."

Lucas Morne walked to the edge of the mirror
and knelt down, looking into it. The ripple
passed to and fro over the surface. For a mo-
ment he hesitated, doubting for whom he should
ask ; and then he said in a low voice : " Are
there supreme moments in the life of Blake —
Vincent Blake, the athlete?" The surf ace of
the mirror suddenly grew still, and in it rose
what seemed a living picture.

He could see once more the mile race in which
he had been defeated by Blake. It was the
third and last lap ; and he himself was leading

10 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

by some twenty yards, for Blake was waiting.
There was a vast crowd of spectators, and he
could hear every now and then the dull sound of
their voices. He saw Vincent Blake slightly
quicken his pace, and marked his own plucky
attempt to answer it; he saw, too, that he had
very little left in him. Gradually Blake drew
up, until at a hundred yards from the finish
there were not more than five yards between
the two runners. Then he noticed his own
fresh attempt. There were some fifty yards of
desperate fighting, in which neither seemed to
gain or lose an inch on the other. The voices
of the excited crowd rose to a roar. .And then
— then Blake had it his own way. He saw
himself passed a yard from the tape.

"Blake has always just beaten me," he said
savagely as he turned from the mirror.

He went back to his seat. "Tell me," he
said; "does that picture really represent the
supreme moments of Blake's life? "

"Yes," answered the veiled woman, "he will
have nothing quite like the ecstasy which he felt
at winning that race. He will marry, and
have children, and his married life will be
happy, but the happiness will not be so intense.
There is an emotion-meter outside this room,
you know, which measures such things."

"Now if one wanted to bet on a race," he
beg-an. Then he stopped short. He had none

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 11

of the finer perceptions, but it did not take these
to show him that he was becoming a little in-
appropriate. " I will look again at the mirror,"
' he added after a pause. " I am afraid, though,
that all this will make me more discontented
with myself."

Once more he looked into the glass of supreme
moments. He murmured the name of Paul
Reece, the good little dissenter, his old school-
fellow. It was not in the power of accomplish-
ment that Paul Reece excelled Lucas Morne,
but only in the goodness and spirituality of his
nature. As he looked, once more a picture
formed on the surface of the mirror. It was of
the future this time.

It was a sombre picture of the interior of a
church. Through the open door one saw the
snow falling slowly into the dusk of a winter
afternoon. Within, before the richly decorated
altar, flickered the little ruby flames of hanging
lamps. On the walls, dim in the dying light,
were painted the stations of the Cross. The
fragrance of the incense smoke still lingered in
the air. He could see but one figure, bowed,
black-robed, before the altar. " And is this Paul
Reece — who was a dissenter? " he asked himself,
knowing that it was he. Some one was seated
at the organ, and the cry of the music was full
of appeal, and yet full of peace : " Agnus Dei,
qui tollis peccata mundi ! "

12 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Then the picture died away, and once more
the little ripple moved to and fro over the sur-
face of the liquid silver mirror. Lucas went
back again to his place. The veiled woman was
leaning backward, her small white hands linked
together. She did not speak, but he was sure
that she was looking at him — looking at him
intently. Slowly it came to him that there was
in this woman a subtle, mastering attraction
which he had never known before. And side
by side with this thought there still remained
the feeling which had filled him as he witnessed
the supreme moments of Paul Reece, a paradox-
ical feeling which was half restlessness and half
peace.

" I do not know if I envy Paul," he said, " but
if so, it is not the envy which hurts. I shall
never belike him. I can't feel as he does. It's
not in me. But this picture did not make me
angry as the other did." He looked steadfastly
at the graceful, veiled figure, and added in a
lower tone : " When I spoke of the travels of
my cousin a little while ago — over Palestine
and Turkey, and thereabouts, you know — I had
meant to lead up to a question, as you saw. 1
had meant to ask you if you would put away
your veil and let me see your face. And there
are many things which I want to know about
you. May I not stay here by your side and
talk?"

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 13

" Soon, very soon, I will talk with you, and
after that you shall see me. What do think,
then, of the glass of supreme moments? "

" It is wonderful. I only feared the sight of
exquisite happiness in others would make me
more discontented. At first you seemed to
think that I was too dissatisfied."

"Do not be deceived. Do not think that
these supreme moments are everything ; for that
life is easiest which is gentle, level, placid, and
has no supreme moments. There is a picture
in the lifo of your friend Fynsale which I wish
you to see. Look at it in the mirror, and then
I shall have something to tell you."

Lucas did as he was bidden. The mirror
showed him a wretched, dingy room — sitting-
room and bedroom combined — in a lodging-
house. At a little rickety table, pushed in front
of a very small fire, Fynsale sat writing by lamp-
light. The lamp was out of order apparently.
The combined smell of lamp and Latakia was
poignant. There was a pile of manuscript be-
fore him, and on the top of it he was placing
the sheet he had just written. Then he rose
from his chair, folded his arms on the mantel-
piece, and bent down, with his head on his
hands, looking into the fire. It was an un-
couth attitude of which, Lucas remembered,
Fynsale had been particularly fond when he
was at college.

14 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

When the picture had passed, Lucas looked
round, and saw that the veiled woman had left
the recess, and was now standing by his side.
"I do not understand this," he said. "How
can those be the supreme moments in Fynsale's
life? He looked poor and shabby, and the room
was positively wretched. Where does the ec-
stasy come in? "

"He has just finished his novel; and he is
quite madly in love with it. Some of it is very
good, and some of it — from merely physical
reasons — is very bad ; he was half-starved when
he was writing it, and it is not possible to write
very well when one is half -starved. But he
loves it. I am speaking of all this as if, like
the picture of it, it was present; although, of
course, it has not happened yet. But I will tell
you more. I will show you, in this case at
least, what these moments of ecstasy are worth.
Some of Fynsale's book, I have said, is very
good, and some of it is very bad ; but none of
it is what people want. He will take it to pub-
lisher after publisher, and they will refuse it.
After three years it will at last be published,
and it will not succeed in the least. And all
through these years of failure he will recall
from time to time the splendid joy he felt at
finishing that book, and how glad he was that
he had made it. The thought of that past
ecstasy will make the torture all the worse."

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 15

"Perhaps, then, after all I should be glad
that I am commonplace? " said Lucas.

" It does not always follow, though, that the
commonplace people have commonplace lives.
There have been men who have been so ordinary
that it hurt one to have anything to do with
them, and yet the gods have made them come
into poetry."

Once more Lucas fancied that a smile with
magic in it might be fluttering under that gray
veil. Every moment the fascination of this
woman, whose face he had not seen, and with
whom he had spoken for so short a time, grew
stronger on him . He did not know from whence
it came, whether it lay in the grace of her figure
and her movements, or in the beauty of her
long, dark hair, or in the music of her voice, or
in that subtle, indefinable way in which she
seemed to show him that she cared for him
deeply. The room itself, quiet, mystical, rest-
ful, dedicated to the ecstasy of the world, had
its effect upon his senses. More than ever be-
fore he felt himself impressed, tremulous with
emotion. He knew that she saw how, in spite
of himself, the look of adoration would come
into his eyes.

And suddenly she, whom but a moment be-
fore he had imagined to be smiling at her own
light thoughts, seemed swayed by a more serious
impulse,

16 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

"You must be comforted, though, and be
angry with yourself no longer. For you are
not commonplace, because you know that you
are commonplace. It is something to have
wanted the right things, although the gods
have given you no power to attain them, nor
even the wit and words to make your want
eloquent." Her voice was deeper, touched with
the under- thrill.

"This," he said, "is the second time you
have spoken of the gods — and yet we are in the
nineteenth century."

"Are we? I am very old and very young.
Time is nothing to me ; it does not change me.
Yesterday in Italy each grave and stream spoke
of divinity. lNon omnis mortar,' sang one in
confidence, 'Non omnis moriar ! ' I heard his
voice, and now he is passed and gone from the
world."

" "We read him still," said Lucas Morne, with
a little pride. He was not intending to take
the classical tripos, but he had with the help of
a translation read that ode from which she was
quoting. She did not heed his interruption in
the least. She went on speaking :

"And to-day in England there is but little
which is sacred ; yet here, too, my work is seen ;
and here, too, as they die, they cry, 'I shall not
die, but live!' "

"You will think me stupid," said Lucas

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 17

Morne, a little bewildered, " but I really do not
understand you. I do not follow you. I can-
not see to what you refer."

" That is because you do not know who I am.
Before the end of to-day I think we shall under-
stand each other well."

There was a moment's pause, and then Lucas
Morne spoke again :

" You have told me that even in the lives of
commonplace people there are sometimes su-
preme moments. I had scarcely hoped for
them and you have bidden me not to desire
them. Shall I — even I — know what ecstasy
means? "

"Yes, yes; I think so."

" Then let me see it, as I saw the rest pictured
in the mirror." He spoke with some hesita-
tion, his eyes fixed on the tiled floor of the
room.

"That need not be," she answered, and she
hardly seemed to have perfect control over the
tones of her voice now. "That need not be,
Lucas Morne, for the supreme moments of your
life are here, here and now."

He looked up, suddenly and excitedly. She
had flung back the gray veil over her long, dark
hair, and stood revealed before him, looking
ardently into his eyes. Her face was paler than
that of average beauty; the lips, shapely and
scarlet, were just parted ; but the eyes gave the

18 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

most wonderful charm. They were like flames
at midnight — not the soft, gray eyes that make
men better, but the passionate eyes that make
men forget honor, and reason, and everything.
She stretched out both hands toward him, im-
pulsively, appealingly. He grasped them in
his own. His own hands were hot, burning;
every nerve in them tingled with excitement.
For a moment he held her at arm's-length, look-
ing at her, and said nothing. At last he found
words :

"I knew that you would be like this. I
think that I have loved you all my life. I wish
that I might be with you forever."

There was a strange expression on her face.
She did not speak, but she drew him nearer
to her.

" Tell me your name," he said.

" Yesterday, where that poet lived — that con-
fident poet — they called me Libitina ; and here
to-day, they call me Death. My name matters
not, if you love me. For to you alone have I
come thus. For the rest, I have done my work
unseen. Only in this hour — only in this hour —
was it possible."

He had hardly heeded what she said. He
bent down over her face.

"Stay!" she said in a hurried whisper; "if
you kiss me you will die."

He smiled triumphantly. "But I shall die

THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 19

kissing you," he said. And so their lips met.
Her lips were scarlet, but they were icy cold.

The captain of the football team had just
come out of evening chapel, his gown slung
over his arm, his cap pulled over his eyes, look-
ing good-tempered, and strong, and jolly, but
hardly devotional. He saw the window of
Morne's rooms open — they were on the ground-
floor — and looked in. By the glow of the fail-
ing fire he saw what he thought was Lucas
Morne seated in a lounge-chair. He called to
him, but there was no answer. " The old idiot's
asleep," he said to himself, as he climbed in at
the window. "Wake up, old man," he cried,
as he put his hand on the shoulder of Lucas
Morne's body, and swung it forward; "wake
up, old man."

The body rolled forward and fell sideways to
the ground heavily and clumsily. It lay there
motionless.

II

EXCHANGE

1— DORIS

THERE was once a girl-child named Doris
who went out skating with her bigger brothers
one afternoon over flooded fields in the Fen
country. But her brothers played hockey with
school-fellows, and Doris skated contentedly
enough by herself. She was wearing Bob's
skates, which she liked better than her own,
and the man had put them on very well indeed.
She went from one field through a gap in the
hedge into the next, and then on into a third
field. There were very few people here, and
most of the ice was not swept ; all of this was
very pleasant to Doris, and made her feel ad-
venturous. It was beautiful, too; and even
children unconsciously understand a sunset
with those old thin trees trembling black
against the crimson disc, and everywhere bits
of white brightness on a gray sea of fog. She
skated as fast as she could, the wind helping
her, feeling strangely and splendidly animated,
when quite suddenly . . .

EXCHANGE 21

But this was not the Fen country. This was
the north of Yorkshire. She had been here
before on a visit to her cousins. Yonder was
the top of Winder ; she had climbed it on clear
days and seen Morecambe Bay flashing in the
distance. But it was night now — almost a black
night, and it was very cold for Doris to be wan-
dering over those hills alone. She had an irri-
tating sensation that she had to go somewhere
before the dawn came, and that she did not
know where or why. It was lonely and awe-
some. " If I only had somebody to speak to, I
shouldn't mind it so much," she said to herself.
At once she heard a low voice saying, " Doris !
Doris ! " and she looked round.

In a recess of the ravine which a ghyll had
made for itself as it leaped from the cold purity
of a hill-top to the warm humanity of a village
in the valley — a village no better than it should
have been — a small fire of sticks was smoul-
dering. Doris could just see that the person
crouched in front of the fire — the person who
had called her by her name — was an old, hag-
gard woman, with her chin resting on her
knees.

"Tell me, old woman," Doris said almost
angrily, "what does this all mean? I was at
Lingay Fen skating, and now I am wandering
over the Yorkshire hills. It has changed from
afternoon to night "

22 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

" It generally does, " said the old woman in a
chilly, unemphatic way. Doris stamped her
foot impatiently. " I mean that it has changed
quite suddenly. Just a moment ago, too, I felt
quite certain that I had to go somewhere, and
I had forgotten where. Now I don't think I
have to go anywhere. "

" No — you have arrived," said the old woman
softly.

At that moment a dry twig burst into flame,
and lit up the old woman's face and figure for
a second. She was hideous enough; her face
was thin and yellow ; her cavernous eyes spar-
kled to the momentary flicker. Her dress and
cloak were torn and faded, but they had been
bright scarlet.

"You naturally ask why," she continued,
"because you are young and have not yet
learned the uselessness of it. What has just
happened to you seems very meaningless and
foolish, but it is not more meaningless and fool-
ish than the rest of things. It is all a poor sort
of game, you know. Explain? No, I shall
not explain ; but it was I who brought you here.
Sit down by me under the night sky, and
watch."

"No, I will not," said Doris, and walked
away. She took about ten paces away, and
then came back again and did the very thing
which she said she would not do. She sat down

EXCHANGE 23

by the old woman, and was a little angry be-
cause she could not help doing it. Then she
began to grumble at the fire. " That's not half
a fire," she said; "it just smoulders and makes
smoke. I will show you what you ought to do.
You put on some fresh sticks — so. Then you
put your mouth quite close to the embers, and
blow and keep — on — blowing. There ! " She
had fitted her actions to her words, and now a
bright flame leaped out. It shone all over, on
her dark hair and dark bright eyes, and on the
gray furs of her dress. It shone, too, on the old
woman, who was smiling an ugly, half-sup-
pressed smile.

" Doris, " said the old woman, " leave the fire
alone. I do not want flame. I only want it to
stream forth smoke."

"But why?"

"See now — there." The old woman made a
downward gesture with both hands, and the
flame sank obediently down again, giving place
to a quick yield of black smoke. " Look at the
smoke, Doris. That is what you have to watch. "
There was a little more energy in the old, qua-
vering voice now.

DoriS did as she was told ; but suddenly she
stopped and cried, half-frightened, " There are
faces in it ! "

"Yes, yes," said the old woman, almost
eagerly ; " and there are pictures of the future

24 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

in it — of the future as it will be unless I alter
it this night. I alone can alter it, you know.
Are you not glad now that you came? "

" It is something like fortune- telling ; did you
ever have your fortune told?"

"No, I never did," replied the old woman.
Her smile was very ugly indeed.

" But how shall I know that it's true? "

"Why, you do know."

That was the strangest part of it. Doris felt
certain without having a reason that she could
give for it. "Show me my future," she said
breathlessly.

"Watch the smoke, then."

So she watched, and picture followed picture.
At the first of them she made some little exclama-
tion. " Ah ! " she cried, " that is a splendid
dress; and I do like those shoes. I wish I
might have long dresses now — I'm sure I'm old
enough ; and I want to have my hair done up
the proper way, but " She stopped sud-
denly, because the picture had changed. "I
look much prettier in this one," she said. "I
have been dancing, I think, from the dress, and
because I seem a little out of breath. There is
a man with me, and now he — no, no.! I would
not. I should hate it. That picture cannot
be right ! " The third picture represented her
marriage with great splendor. "Well," she
said, " I do not mind that so much — just stand-

EXCHANGE 25

ing up and wearing a beautiful veil. But I
don't want to be married at all. I like skating
ever so much better."

There was a faint sound of laughter, muffled
and bitter, from the old woman. "You like
skating? " she said. "Where are your skates,
then, Doris? " Doris looked for them, but could
not find them, and this distressed her. "Oh,
what shall I do? They were not my skates;
they were Bob's."

"Who is Bob?"

" Bob is my smallest brother — ever so much
younger than I am; he's my favorite brother,
too. He's got red hair, but he's a pretty
boy."

" He must be a milksop if he can't skate."

" He can skate. He can do the outside edge
backward; he skates better than any of my
three big brothers."

"Well, well — it's a pity that he's stupid,
though."

" Stupid? Do you know why he lent me his
skates? Because he was going to write a story
this afternoon, and he's going to put me in it.
Bob can do almost anything. He's wonderful.
When he grows up he'll very likely write a
whole book, he says."

"Look at his future — Bob's future — in the
smoke, " said the old woman grimly, heaping on
more sticks.

26 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Doris looked reluctantly. The pictures came
flashing past one after the other. Some she
could not altogether understand, for she knew
nothing of the vices of young men; but they
were vaguely terrible. But even a child could
understand the last picture of all. It was
awful and vivid. She almost fancied that
she could hear the report of the pistol, and the
dim thud as the body fell awkwardly on the
floor.

"You needn't cry," said the old woman, as
Doris burst into tears.

"Oh! Bob is so splendid," sobbed Doris.
" Don't let it be like that. Do alter it. You
don't know him or you would change it.
You said you could. I'll give you everything
I've got if you'll stop it somehow."

" Will you give me your beauty — your youth —
your life? "

" Oh, willingly — everything ! "

"I want none of them — none of them," said
the old woman fiercely and quickly. " But I
want something else. Give it me, and I will
alter it as you wish." She stretched out a lean
finger and tapped Doris' forehead, and whis-
pered a few words in her ear.

Doris turned white enough, but she nodded
assent. "Then it will alter my future, too,"
she said with a little gasp.

" It will alter the future of everybody in the

EXCHANGE 27

world — indirectly and in some cases very
slightly. But you will give it me? "

" Yes, yes. " She paused a moment, and then
added a torrent of questions: "Old woman,
who are you? Why are you dressed in scarlet?
Why did you have me brought here? I should
like it to turn out to be a dream. Oh ! why do
you want it? Why are you so horribly — horri-
bly cruel?"

But the old woman, and the fire, and the
great dark hills grew dim and indistinct ; and
there was no answer.

The two old men — one with a medical, the
other with a military air — came slowly down
the broad staircase from the bedrooms without
speaking. The little red-headed boy was wait-
ing for them as usual. " Is Doris any better,
papa? " he asked eagerly. " Will she live? "

It was no good to keep it from him ; he would
have to know sooner or later.

"Yes, Bob," said the colonel, "she will live.

But the — the injury to her head has " He

stopped with a gulping sound in his voice.
The boy looked up at him wistfully with a scared
face.

"Don't, colonel," said the doctor; "you'd
better leave it to me. I will tell the boy."

*8 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

2— MAJOR GUNNICAL

NOBODY ever denied in my presence that
Major Gunnical was a capital shot and a good
fellow. He went straight, and it was always
imputed to him for righteousness. But the
other day the only man of the world with whom
I am acquainted accused the major of want of
taste, and based his accusation on the fact that
he took the liberty of dying in the country-house
of a friend, not having been invited for that
purpose. I might have pointed out that Major
Gunnical knew Sir Charles quite well enough
to take a liberty which would have been unpar-
donable in a casual guest ; I might have added
that it was one of those accidents which may
happen to any man, and that it was uninten-
tional and unforeseen on the major's part. But
I prefer to give the facts of the case, which
seem to me to explain everything.

On the evening which opened the night of
his death, Major Gunnical had gone upstairs to
dress sooner than the rest of them. He stood
in his bedroom with his back to the fire, well
knowing that if the back be warm the whole
body is warm also. He was half-afraid that
he had caught a chill, and chills affected him.
There was nothing in his appearance to tell you
that his heart was wrong. His body was large
and muscular, and he looked a strong man.

EXCHANGE 29

His hair had only just begun to get a little gray.
His complexion was pale, but it had been tanned
by hot suns and seemed clear and healthy. His
eyes were thoughtful gray eyes — quite out of
keeping with the active look of the man. His
best point was his simple directness ; he could
do right things, even when they were not easy,
without thinking of them at the time or after-
ward. His worst point was his temper, which
broke loose occasionally. At the present mo-
ment he was thinking about himself, which
was not a usual occurrence with Major Gunni-
cal, and his thoughts were depressing; so he
tried to dismiss them. " It's all nervousness and
too much tobacco, " he thought to himself ; " but
I will go up to town to-morrow and let old
Peterson prescribe for me. I shall be all right
in a day — probably only liver — no exercise,
thanks to this cursed frost. Oh, yes, it's just
liver — nothing else."

He paused once when he was fastening his
collar, and said slowly and distinctly, "Damn
presentiments." But he was not able to shake
off a feeling of quietness : a desire to be at peace
with men and a tendency to look at the sad
side of things. When he got downstairs he
found only one man already in the drawing-
room — a man called Kenneth, who wrote.
Now there was a certain disagreement between
Kenneth and the major. In the smoking-room

30 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

the night before, the major had expressed his
sincere admiration for a certain story of soldier
life by a new writer, and Kenneth had ex-
plained to him that this admiration was
wrong, because the story was not at all well
constructed.

"I own," he had said, "that it takes a critic
to see the faults of the technique." This was a
little vain of Kenneth. "Yes," said the major
hotly, " and it takes a man to feel the merits of
the story." This was a little rude of the major,
for Kenneth was obviously an effeminate person.
Kenneth put up his eye-glasses and looked at
the major curiously. " Don't be so damnably
affected," said the major. Then Sir Charles
had interposed lazily.

Consequently, when the major entered the
drawing-room Kenneth at once began to assume
more dignity than Providence had made him
able to carry easily. The major walked up to
him and held out one hand. " Look here, Ken-
neth," he said, "I'm an old fool, and always
thinking I know another man's business as well
as my own. I'd no right to question your
opinion last night and make an angry ass of
myself. I'm sorry." Kenneth's dignity came
down heavily, and he took the major's hand at
once. For a fortnight he loved him, and then
he told publicly the story of how he had gone
to the major and forced him to apologize. For

EXCHANGE 31

there is a combination of imagination and van-
ity which nothing — not even kindness — can
kill.

The major was very dull at dinner, but when
his host's two children came in afterward, they
seemed to find him very satisfactory. The
major loved children. He did not stop very
long in the smoking-room that night. He
wanted badly to be alone.

For some time after he had gone to bed he
lay awake thinking. Maude, his host's elder
daughter, reminded him in appearance of his
own niece Doris. It seemed hard that Maude
should be so bright and happy, and that Doris
— owing to a skating accident — should be con-
demned to lose all her brightness, and her flow
of talk, and her power to understand. Yet
Doris never seemed actually unhappy ; her eyes
were vacant, as if the light behind them had
gone out, but she did not seem to be suffering.
During the first part of her illness she had bab-
bled about some woman, an old woman dressed
in scarlet, who frightened her.

Thus thinking, the major fell asleep. It was
long past midnight when he opened his eyes
and saw a figure of a woman standing on the
hearth-rug, and stretching yellow hands like
claws toward the remnant of the fire. It startled
him, but he did not want to wake up the rest of
the house.

32 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

"What are you doing in my room? " he said
in a rapid whisper.

The old woman turned round. He could
hardly see her face, but the flicker of the fire
showed him that she was dressed in rags of
faded scarlet. Her voice was very gentle and
low.

"Awake? Are you awake? I made a little
noise to wake you on purpose. But generally
they go on sleeping when I come. I am the
scarlet woman of whom Doris spoke. She has
been taken."

"Dead? A merciful deliverance."

" No, she is not delivered yet. She has to go
through life again in a lower form before she is
delivered. I hate her. I will see that she is
unhappy again before she is delivered."

"Why does this all seem real instead of
seeming fantastic and absurd — as it ought
to?"

" Because it is real ; but they always ask me
that, all those who see me. Doris shall become
a caged bird, I think — one of those who are
driven nearly mad by captivity and yet are so
strong that they die slowly."

"You can't do that," said the major quickly.

"You know I can, and you know I shall,"
replied the old woman in the same soft whisper.
" I need not argue, or prove, or do anything of
that kind. When I speak men know that all is

EXCHANGE 33

as I say; but they do not often hear me, be-
cause they are nearly always asleep when I
come."

" Where is Doris now? "

" She waits in dreamland, where nothing is
real, until I get my opportunity, and she is
born once more, and caught, and caged, and
tortured."

As she said this she seemed to grow a little
more excited ; and, as if in sympathy with her,
the fire suddenly burned up more brightly, and
showed her horrible, lean face, and deep, leer-
ing eyes.

"That's cruel," said the major. "And what
shall I be when I die? "

"You will not have a bad time," she said,
grinning. "You shall be a dear little white
lamb that lives an hour and then is delivered.
You will die to-night, by the way. But Doris
shall beat her heart out against bars, because I
hate her. You will see one another in dream-
land, while you are waiting until I get the two
right opportunities."

An idea occurred to the major. " Change us,
Doris and myself."

The old woman trembled with agitation, and
her voice rose shrilly. " I will not ! I will not ! "
she cried.

But something bright and sure, like a steady
light, seemed to fill the man's mind. " But you
3

34 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

will — you cannot help it," he answered very
quietly.

The old woman strode quickly across the
room, her face aflame with rage, and touched
him on the heart. He fell backward, and did
not speak any more.

" I must always come when they are asleep
in future," said the old woman, as she went
back to the fire. " It is too much to risk — I
have lost by Doris and this man." There was a
long pause. " But I will torture him even more
than I would have tortured Doris," she whis-
pered gently to the fire.

Two months afterward a white lamb was
born, in a sheltered place, on a grassy fell. And
in an hour it died.

And on the same day a certain bird-catcher,
resident in Whitechapel, went out early and
had luck.

3— DORIS IN THE HEREAFTER

THE release had come at last. To Doris it
was an exquisite release; the years spent in
darkness were over ; the short, mystical period
which followed her death was over; her spirit
went out into the moonlit night — white, naked,
beautiful. She could remember but little con-
sciously of her earth-life. She had suffered —

EXCHANGE 35

she could recollect that, and she had spoken
with a grim woman — an old woman dressed in
rags of faded scarlet. She did not recollect
what had been said, but she knew that it had
been the beginning of the darkness which had
fallen on her mind. Of her death she knew
nothing ; of a short strange time after her death
she knew a little, dimly and vaguely.

She was free, and it was enough for her. It
seemed to her that she still kept the body which
had been called Doris during its earth-life, but
that now it was light as the air, stronger than
before, and far more beautiful. She stood, a
childish figure, graceful and erect, on a shred
of dark cloud which a steady night wind blew
past the hill-tops and over the valley. Below
her she could see the flooded river, angry with
its old stone bridges, crying itself to sleep in
long, still reaches, with the mists rising white
all about it. She saw, too, much that the living
do not see. In a lonely cottage, low and roughly
built, some young spring flowers had just died;
she saw their souls — their fragrance, as she had
been used to call it — pass upward ; and as they
passed they changed and became a handful of
ghost-lilies in the garden-land of dreams. And
all night long she went on her way, seeing
beautiful things. She could never be tired any
more ; and the rain and the dew did not hurt
her ; and the cold wind did not seem cold to her.

36 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

And when the morning came, a little baby
breeze came up to her with a message. It was
so young and forgetful that it had not got the
exact words of the message. But it remem-
bered the drift of it. " He said you were to go
and look for sorrows," it whispered in her ear.
It lingered for a moment, playing with her
hair, and then it went down below and tried to
blow a dandelion clock. And not being strong
enough, it sat down and sulked ; for it had not
yet learned that the only things worth doing are
the things one cannot do.

Then Doris went on about her work, very
happy, singing little songs that she remembered.
And first of all she went to a great house where
a proud and beautiful lady lived. But the
proud lady sat huddled up and quite undignified
in her own room, crying till her nose was red
and she was not pleasant to see. And all be-
cause some one or other — I think it was her
husband — was dead, and was going to be for-
ever happy! Doris laughed contemptuously,
and passed on.

She next went to a nursery where there was
a little freckled girl with sandy hair. And the
little girl was unhappy because of a bad acci-
dent to a ninepenny doll, which was her most
intimate friend. There was a small hole in the
doll's neck and a possible escape of sawdust. It
was only by holding the doll wrong way up and

EXCHANGE 37

shaking it that you could make the sawdust
come out ; and the little girl did not want the
sawdust to come out at all, for it caused her
agony when it came out ; and yet she held the
doll upside down and shook it. For this was
the kind of girl that, when she grows up, be-
comes a woman. Doris was sorry for her,
and whispered in her ear, " You had better get
a little piece of stamp-paper and stick it over
the hole in the doll's neck — but it won't last
long. " The child thought Doris was a beauti-
ful idea, and went radiantly to the study and
opened the despatch-box. There was no stamp-
paper. There was one penny stamp, and she
knew that it was wicked to take it. So she
compromised — which was feminine of her —
and tore the stamp in two and only took half of it.
Then she went back to the nursery, and fixed
the half-stamp as Doris had suggested. Doris,
who had watched her, was horrified. "You
ought not to have taken that stamp," she said
to her. " You had better confess what you have
done, and say that you do not wish to tell a lie. "
Then the little girl supposed Doris was con-
science— for, of course, Doris was invisible —
and did not think quite so much of her. Neither
did she confess. Doris was not very unhappy
about it, knowing that children are always for-
given and occasionally forgotten.

She saw many other sorrows and she thought

38 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

very little of them. People, she perceived,
always exaggerated the importance of death,
and money, and love. Yet she saw a wind — a
venomous wind — snap the stalk of the very
loveliest daffodil, and nobody wore black clothes
for it, or had sherry-and-biscuits, or showed any
of the signs of sorrow. She had only been for
a few hours in the Hereafter, and yet she
already felt herself to be out of touch with
humanity.

And it happened that she came to a great
dirty city, and she stopped where a cage of
wicker-work was hung outside a grimy shop
in a grimy street. There were several things
in the cage : a yellow glass for water with no
water in it ; a blue glass for seed with no seed
in it; something which had once been a turf
and now looked like a badly cooked brick ; and
something which panted on the floor of the cage
in the corner — it was all that was left of a bird,
a soaring bird that loved the upper air and the
sunlight, but was now reduced to plain dying
and high thinking. Now none of the other sor-
rowful persons had seen Doris; but the bird
saw her and called to her, but she did not un-
derstand the language. She went into the
shop and whispered to the man in charge,
"Your bird outside wants attention; it's ill."

" Bless my soul ! and I gave a shilling for it ! "
So he took the bird some water and something

EXCHANGE 39

to eat which was not good for it. The bird
chirped. " It knows me and loves me already,"
said the man. It was really saying, " Would
you kindly wring my neck, and end this? "

"I am sorry for it," said Doris, as she passed
on. "I am glad I was never a pet." She
would have been more sorry if she had known
all the history of that bird.

A MAN AND A GOD

I HUNGER and am not satisfied : .

Because I am small, and the world is wide ;

And the world is one, and the stars are sand,

Flung right out by a careless hand

Into the darkness to slide and slide ;

And all the darkness is one small blot

That He who made it regardeth not.

He hath nor sorrow, nor joy, nor pride,

And His face is set as it were of stone ;

He worked, and he letteth the work alone ;

And none are above Him and none beside.

The dead leaf blown from the dying tree,

The great ship wrecked in a cruel sea,

The creeping things that the cart-wheels crush,

The ruined star in its downward rush —

Alike to Him all these things be,

And the darkness is as the day's full light,

Ever and ever, by day and night,

He sits alone, and His great eyes see

A million worlds in their courses turn ;

Yet like a flame the deep looks burn

Even in this small heart of me.

A MAN AND A GOD 41

He thought me, and He let me go ;

He thought a man and it was so.

For He thinketh all and there liveth naught

That came not first from out God's thought;

Then we are left — to die or grow,

He has forgotten us all by now,

And stony swoon on His stony brow

Lies, and His breath is strong and slow.

He sees, and recks not what He sees,

And never it moveth His frozen ease

That we cry, and die, and rot below.

Yet the far hills, that snow makes white,
Stretch Godward, longing for His light;
And all last night the winds outpoured
Their rhythmic Glory to the Lord—
I listened longingly last night.
We hunger and are not satisfied ;
All the worlds and the darkness wide,
Every depth and every height,
Longing to be in God again.
And hunger is hunger, and longing vain,
And man is nothing, and God is right.

Ill

RURAL SIMPLICITY

1— A LETTER FROM Miss MILLJCENT MARSHE, OF
CARLESTON RECTORY, TO Miss CLARA ORMRY, OF THE
LAWN, LOWANSTANTON, SEPTEMBER 2D

MY DEAREST CLARA : — I am going to write
you a long letter. There is just a little news to
tell you, and I want to talk about something I
could not possibly discuss with any one else.
You are only a few years older than I am, and
yet you know so much more about things. I
feel sure that if you advise me at all, you will
advise me well. You have read so many more
novels and stories than I have, that you under-
stand human nature much better. And you are
so sympathetic too. I have often thought it
very sad that at the age of twenty-five you
should have decided that you can never love
again ; but I know that you do take the warm-
est and deepest interest in the love-stories of
others, and there is no one to whom I could
more readily tell all the secrets of my heart.
You must not imagine that I have any love-
story or any secrets of that kind to tell you now.

RURAL, SIMPLICITY 43

On the contrary, I have just realized that you
are quite right about my cousin Tom, and that
I can never, never love him at all. Every
word that you said about him was true : mere
good looks, good nature, and a partiality for
athletics are not enough ; I can see now how
right you were when you told me that " one
wants the wonderful insight and sympathy that
can understand the delicacies and simplicities
of a young girl's soul" — I think that is the
most beautiful sentence in your last dear letter.
And it is so true ! It is just a little difficult for
me, because Tom is living at the rectory until
he goes up to Cambridge in October, and al-
though he spends a good deal of his time in
the study with papa, working for his examina-
tion, he does get a good many opportunities of
seeing me. He really behaves just as if I had
encouraged him ; and he seems almost to expect
me to fall in love with him. I like him well
enough, but it would be absurd to think about
loving him. I did that only before I had the
benefit of your wise advice, my dear Clara.

And now I must tell you a little news. Do
you remember how you used to rave about " The
Long Dream"? Of course you do, because in
your last letter you speak of the book again, and
say what a consolation it has been to you in
your great trouble. You give me, too, a sketch
of what you imagine the author, Mr. Merle,

44 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

must be like. What will you say when I tell
you that for the last fortnight Mr. Merle has
been living at Carleston, and that I have seen
him constantly? It's true. Oh !

You were not quite right in your imaginary
description of him. You said that you thought
the author of " The Long Dream" would be " tall
and dark, with flashing eyes and a complexion
like cream with the faintest suspicion of coffee
in it." He really has rather a roundish face,
a fresh color, and fair hair which is generally
rather untidy. I think his eyes are gray ; but
I have not been near enough to see properly.
You were quite right in thinking that he would
be tall, however. What made you guess that?
In dress he is just like any other man.

Mr. Merle's father and mine were at college
together, it turns out ; so naturally we have seen
a good deal of him. He has dined here twice
and been to tennis several times. He plays
better than Tom. He has got rooms at an old
farm-house, and will perhaps stay for another
month, he says. Papa is delighted with him,
and so is Aunt Mary ; Tom does not like him
so much, and says that he is conceited. This
is utterly untrue ; he is really quite unaffected,
and very good-tempered. He does not mind
talking about his books ; I told him last night
that I loved " The Long Dream," and it seemed
to please him. Was I wrong? Tom behaves

RURAL SIMPLICITY 45

very badly, I am sorry to say, and cannot even
keep his temper when Mr. Merle beats him at
tennis. I think a boy of eighteen ought to know
better, and I told him so. Then he got angry,
and said a perfectly outrageous thing — a thing
for which there is not the slightest foundation,
which no amount of intimacy could have justi-
fied him in saying. I would not speak to him
all the rest of that day ; and I have now told
him that if he dares even to hint at such a thing
again, I will never speak to him any more at all.
I cannot think what has come over poor Tom
lately ; he used to be all right, but now he is
horrible. He seems to have completely changed
during the last fortnight. He said the other
day that Mr. Merle was an atheist. I told him
that, even if it were true, such a charge would
come very badly from him, because, as you
know, on fine mornings Tom is rather given to
shirking church ; and I pointed out to him that
Mr. Merle had been to church twice on each of
the Sundays that he has been here — he sits just
opposite to our pew — and that he must have
listened to papa's sermons, because he talked
to papa about them afterward. Tom had no
reason whatever to offer for saying so ; except
that he had been told that most authors were
atheists. I asked him how about St. Paul?
which of course he couldn't answer.

I do wish that Tom could manage to behave

46 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

a little more as Charles Leader, Mrs. Leader's
eldest son, did. I saw a good deal of him some
time ago, and he asked me to marry him, you
know, shortly after Tom's arrival here. He
had simply misunderstood my manner to him ;
but when I told him his mistake, he never re-
proached me at all ; he has left the village and
never troubled me since. I wish Tom would
go away too. It is so indelicate of him to keep
on caring for me when I have stopped caring
for him.

You must not think that, when I said Mr.
Merle's face was roundish, that I meant it in a
disparaging way at all. He is very good-look-
ing; he has that appearance of nobility and
strength which I so much admire in a man.
He makes every one like him, except Tom. I
wish I could give you a better idea of his per-
sonal appearance, but there really is no one we
know who could be compared with him for a
moment. He likes music ; I sang two or three
songs for him in the drawing-room the last
time he dined here. He has a strange way of
looking at one sometimes, as if he were thirsty.
It is very interesting to talk to him; he has
just come from London, you see, and has heaps
of things to tell us. One hears so little in this
benighted village. We are going to have tea
at his rooms in the farm-house this afternoon,
which will be splendid. Tom says he shall not

RURAL SIMPLICITY 47

go. I shall meet him again in the evening at
Mrs. Leader's. Please write soon to me, dearest
Clara, and tell me what to do.

Ever your most loving friend,

MILLICENT MARSHE.

P. S. — His other names are Cecil Vanstoun.
He only puts the initials, you know, on the
title-page of his book. I forgot to say that I
think Hike him very much — very much indeed.
I have begun to keep a diary ; you suggested it
some time ago.

2— A LETTER FROM CECIL VANSTOUN MERLE TO JOHN
DUNHAM, FELLOW OF SIDNEY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,
SEPTEMBER 3D

DEAR JACK: — No, I am not going to give
you a humorous and epigrammatic account of
the aborigines of Carleston, and the way they
treat the unusual apparition of a live Londoner.
That kind of thing has been done too often
and too badly. Besides, I may possibly be an
author, but I am certainly a man of business.
I couldn't send you, free, in a letter that which
might be printed and purchased. It would
offend your natural delicacy; at any rate it
ought to ; I might as well send you a couple of
guineas at once as amusement to that amount.
And lastly, what is the use of a friend if we may
not be very dull with him ? We keep our brill-
iant side for the comparative stranger, or sell

48 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

it to the positive editor ; we use it to make an
impression or a livelihood; we don't waste it on
friends.

Well, as you know, I came down here from
London about a fortnight ago, sick of the sea-
son, overworked, eagerly desiring to be alone,
and dumb, and idle, and to drink new milk.
I am already somewhat refreshed. I have
drunk the new milk; I have stretched myself
on the grass in the sun, and smoked many pipes,
and become an object of derision to my landlady
by reason of my laziness ; I do not think she ever
had a lodger who did less and enjoyed it more ;
and if I have not been absolutely dumb, I can
at least guarantee that I have said nothing
which would be worth repetition. I like this
village; there's an indefinable air of goodness
and rural simplicity about it. My rooms are
not exactly artistic, of course, but everything
is spotlessly clean. Why is bad Berlin wool-
work on the sofa always accompanied by mina-
tory texts on the walls? It is a pity that you
restrict yourself to answering academical ques-
tions and I restrict myself to asking the other
kind. The rooms do very well ; I have imported
a good piano, which is rather luxurious of me,
I suppose.

But I have not been alone. When I decided ,
rather in a hurry, to take these rooms and come
to Carleston for a couple of months or so, I

RURAL SIMPLICITY 49

neglected to inquire who was the village par-
son. He is the Rev. Hubert Marshe, and was
at Trinity with my father. They were friends,
and consequently I have been up to the rectory
a good deal. He is a man of some culture, has
a touch of bibliomania, is gentle in everything
but his orthodoxy, and is really loved by every
one in the village. His wife died six years
ago, and an unmarried sister, Mary Marshe,
keeps house for him. She is rather a prim old
lady, and insists on all the small points, but she
has as sweet a disposition as her brother. A
nephew of his is stopping in the house, and is
supposed to be reading for the little-go with the
rector. He seems to occupy most of his time
with adoring the rector's only child Millicent,
a girl of seventeen. He himself is not a bad
fellow altogether, but rather a cub. Cambridge
will improve him.

I went to dine last night with a Mrs. Leader,
a widow who has a big house here, but who
formerly lived in Cornwall. I had met her at
the rectory. By the way, whenever the rector's
nephew, Tom, gets very angry with the rector's
daughter, Millicent — which happens sometimes,
because he is as unreasonable as most adorers —
he always talks to her about this Mrs. Leader's
elder son, who is now away from home. He
does this simply to annoy her — a fact which I
had in my mind when I said he was rather a
4

50 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

cub. However, that's none of my business. It
was rather a pleasant dinner. Mrs. Leader has
that shade of gentle Puritanism in her which
one still finds occasionally in the inhabitants of
English villages. It is the old Puritanism with
charity added. She is hard on herself and in-
dulgent to the rest of the world. There are
some good people still alive, my dear Jack, but
one does not as a rule meet them in London.
For real goodness and simplicity one must come
to the country. I had a long talk with Mrs.
Leader about her elder son Charles, whom she
worships, and, curiously enough, I had another
talk with Miss Marshe on the same subject later
in the evening. She implied, in that vague and
delicate way which comes to girls by instinct,
that Charles Leader had asked her to marry
him, and that she had refused him. She did
not say either of these things directly, but she
talked as if I knew them, until I actually did
know them, and altogether — well, I am going
to stop these uninteresting details and come to
the main point. I had not meant to tell you,
but I find that I must. You may have guessed
it already — you are rather clever at such things.
I take back all that I have ever said about
women. I had never met the perfect woman
before, but I have met her now. I love Milli-
cent Marshe, and I am going to ask her to
marry me.

RURAL SIMPLICITY 51

At least, I am not sure whether I shall ask
her to marry me or not. I am not yet sure
whether she cares for her cousin Tom. I rather
gathered from a hint that her aunt let fall that
a marriage between these two was not unlikely.
If she really cares for Tom, of course I shall not
annoy her by my interference. You must not
misunderstand me when I say that she is per-
fect. I do not mean that her attainments — her
intellectual attainments — are better than those
of all other women. I have not entirely lost
my critical faculty. I can see, for instance,
that her playing is slipshod, and her singing
only shows the average drawing-room quality.
Very likely she was not well taught. What I
meant rather was that she was quite unspoiled.
I feel sure that she has never given one senti-
mental thought to a man in her life. There are
girls in town who have a hideous practice of
writing morbid confidences to each other about
men they have met. She would never do that.
She is quite incapable, too, of fickleness. She
will love once and love always. But at present
she has never thought of love and marriage.
She is the perfect, virginal type — fresh and un-
tainted as a fragrant wild- flower in one of the
hedge-rows here ; and yet a strange, unconscious,
delicate instinct keeps her from all mistakes —
she would never let a man believe that she
cared for him if she did not. This Charles

52 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Leader, who, I have told you, asked her to
marry him, must have been an idiot to have
thought that he had a chance. She would never
lead a man on unless she meant to marry him.
She has lived all her days in this country vil-
lage, far away from the vulgar flirtations and
sickly sentimentalities of London. She is a
white soul, framed in a lovely body. I could
write pages about her beauty, Jack, but I fear
you would only laugh at me. She has dark
hair, and brown, faithful eyes, and a young
rosebud of a mouth that — what am I doing? — I
who have hated sentimentality all my days !
Yes, you may laugh at me as much as you like.
I don't mind. I suppose it will all be over
soon, for I am afraid that it is for Tom, not for
me, that she cares. I have studied character
all my life, and I do not think I can be mis-
taken.

Briefly, my plan is this. I shall observe as
closely as* possible during the next few days.
If she seems to favor Tom, I shall go away and
trouble her no more. If she seems to favor me,
I shall propose to her. I feel absolutely sure
that she would never mislead either Tom or
myself. You will tell me that I am wanting
in pluck, but I do not think so. It would be
foolhardiness to propose to her if she obviously
cared for Tom ; and it would also be, probably,
very offensive to her. I do not allow myself to

RURAL SIMPLICITY 53

hope much, and yet at times hopes will force
their way in, and I picture happiness.

That is my plan of campaign. Cambridge
is quite desolate just now, I suppose. Why do
you stop? I had a good deal to tell you about
a book that I am planning, but I've taken up
all my space with my account of Millicent
Marshe. You may be as amused as you please,
but it's terribly serious with me, and I have no
notion how it will all end.
Ever yours,

CECIL VANSTOUN MERLE.

3 — EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF MILLICENT
MARSHE

September 3d. — Oh! oh! oh! I wish I could
understand myself. I wish I knew what I was
doing. I wrote a long letter to Clara about Mr.
Merle this morning. I went to his rooms with
the others this afternoon. I met him at dinner
this evening at Mrs. Leader's. I am immensely
interested in him, but I am not quite sure that
I love him ; what is much worse is that I am
by no means sure that he loves me. Tom
walked back with me from the Leaders' to the
vicarage, and I thought that he did not seem to
care for me as much as he once did. Of course,
that was just what I wanted, for I can never
marry Tom ; but it pained me to see that he
could be so fickle and forget so easily. So I

54 STORTES AND INTERLUDES

made a sort of appeal to his better nature, to see
if he really had forgotten ; and now I am afraid
that he will think I was encouraging him. I
do not believe Charles Leader has ever forgotten
me. I only wish that he would, except that it
would rather lessen my high opinion of him.
I do so hate fickleness. I like simplicity and
constancy.

Mr. Merle is very brilliant. He has had a
piano sent down here from London, and I sang
" Love's Rapturous Sorrow " to him this after-
noon at his rooms; I thought that he might
have thanked me rather more warmly. When
I had finished, Aunt Mary asked him if he
played, and he said that he did, a little. I was
rather surprised at this, because it had never
occurred to me that any men, except profes-
sionals, played the piano at all. He consented
to play at once and asked me what I should like.
I suggested the "Pathetique Sonata," because I
can never make the rondo go right, and I wanted
to see if he could. "You're right," he said, as
he sat down at the piano. "The school-girls
have got at that terribly, but they will never
make me stop liking it. Didn't you find that
in the days when you were at school? " He did
not wait for me to reply, but began at once. He
played it all through without notes magnifi-
cently. He would not play any more, and he
would not sing, although he confessed that he

RURAL SIMPLICITY 55

sang "a little." I wish that I had known all
this before I sang those drawing-room songs to
him. He must have hated them, and probably
he hates me in consequence. I think that if he
had possessed perfect taste he would not have
played quite so well — he would have seen that
it was a sort of reproach to me. Besides, I
thought that he had got the piano simply for
my pleasure, and now it appears that he got it
entirely for his own. Still I do not think that
he meant to be selfish. Men as a rule have
very little tact. Yet, I don't know — I fancy
that I should not have liked him so well if he
had been less brilliant. I cannot help thinking
about the power he holds. His book is read
everywhere and quoted everywhere. It is ad-
mired by the very best critics, and yet I am
almost sure that he was pleased when I told him
that I loved it. I like to feel that he can do
things which are beyond other men, but I do
wish he would be a little — how shall I write it?
— a little more decided. He leaves me uncer-
tain.

Charles Leader never did that. Whenever I
go to Mrs. Leader's I always find a certain train
of thoughts — tender and sorrowful — start up in
my brain about Charlie, as I called him then.
Charlie was always quite decided. But so
mistaken ! Tom never left me in doubt, either.
He's mistaken, too.

56 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

September 4th. — I have just had a long let-
ter from my dear Clara, answering the letter
which I sent the day before yesterday. I have
no notion how she arrived at the conclusion, but
this is it :

" Unconsciously perhaps, you are very much
in love with Cecil Vanstoun Merle."

What magic there is in those words! I
think I have read them over a hundred times,
and it makes me tremble to write them down.
I cannot imagine how she guessed it. She
must have great insight in these things, or she
would never have discovered my feelings from
my letter. I had hardly guessed them myself.
Well, this is my own diary, and no one but my-
self will ever read it ; so I will write down my
confession. I love Cecil Vanstoun Merle. I
love him more than any one or anything in the
whole world. I could never, never, never love
any one else. And he has not yet shown me
plainly that he loves me. Consequently, I have
no right to love him.

I won't love him.

I can't help loving him.

I should like just to sit down and cry forever
and ever. I am very unhappy. And yet I am
not sure that I shall not in the end be very
happy indeed, if I only follow the plan which
dear Clara has made out for me — the plan of
campaign, she calls it. She is so wise, and

RURAL SIMPLICITY 57

she has had experience. This is what she
says:

" You know, my dear Millicent, that I myself
have loved and lost. I was then in the first
bloom of my girlhood, young, guileless, tender-
hearted, beautiful, some said. I never attempt-
ed to conceal my passion, and that ivas why I
lost him. Men only care to win what is difficult
to win. Especially is this the case with men of
the bold and intensely masculine physique that
you describe in Cecil Merle. An obstacle is an
allurement to such men. I am convinced that
if you show Cecil Merle that you care for him,
he will at once lose any love that he may have
for you. If, on the other hand, you show a
marked preference for your cousin, and if Cecil
cares in the least degree for you now, he will
care a thousandfold more then, and you may
count on a proposal from him before he leaves
Carleston. Besides, this is the only truly
maidenly course to pursue; my own conduct
was unwise. I was blinded by love, and I have
paid the debt in a life-long sorrow."

I almost think that she is right. There may,
perhaps, be a little difficulty with Tom. A very
little encouragement always encourages Tom so
very much. He may not see the true motives
for my conduct ; and even if he saw them he
might be selfish. Of course, if he really loved
me, it would be a pleasure to him to add to my

58 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

happiness ; and he would be adding to my hap-
piness if he helped me to win Mr. Merle — I mean
if he helped to give Mr. Merle an opportunity
of winning me. Perhaps that is the way that
I ought to look at it. Besides, as Clara points
out, if Tom presumes too far, I can always tell
him that he is insulting me. Yes, I must for a
few days try Clara's plan, and pretend to be
fond of Tom. I can always alter the plan if I
find that it does not succeed. I must see what
effect it has on Mr. Merle.

Only, because I love him so much, I shall
always call him Cecil in future in these secret
pages of my diary. I know that if I let him
see that I loved him he would hate me. And
if he hated me, I should die. Clara is quite
right about his boldness, and I feel sure that
with him an obstacle would prove an allure-
ment. If it makes him declare his — ah, I can't
write it! He is coming to dinner to-morrow
night, and I will write again then.

September 5th. — I have just come up from
the drawing-room. I talked to Tom most of
dinner-time, and I played the accompaniments
to Tom's songs. I told him that I should have
" The Devout Lover " ringing in my head all
night. Afterward I talked to Cecil — chiefly
about Tom's prospects at Cambridge. I watched
most anxiously to see what effect this had on
Cecil. I could not discover that it had any

RURAL SIMPLICITY 59

effect at all ; he does not let one see very easily
what his feelings are. He ought to, I think.
Tom, however, was very much elated ; I thought
he would never let go of my hand when he said
good-night. This is unfortunate, but I must go
on with the plan a little longer, until I see
things more clearly.

When one sees the two men together, one
cannot help noticing Cecil's distinct superiority.
He is really god-like, far beyond all other men.
Charles Leader appealed to me to some extent ;
my friendship for him was invested with a cer-
tain sentiment. I was a simple country girl,
and I was misled at the time by my feelings.
When Tom came, he appealed to me far more,
but although I have always tried to be kind to
him, I can see now that I never loved him.
Cecil, on the other hand, does not exactly appeal
to me ; he masters me, absorbs me. To see him
is joy unspeakable ; to think of him is the rapt-
ure that almost tortures. How utterly I love
him!

Something within me seems to tell me that
Clara was right. Cecil is so brilliant, so bold,
so intensely masculine, that the thought of a
rival would add to the ardor of his love ; I feel
that I know his nature perfectly ; he is made to
conquer, and he would care nothing for a victory
which involved no fighting. Yes, for one day
more I will carry on the plan, and then I will

60 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

let him say what he will be dying to say. I
hope it will be in the conservatory. It seems so
nice to think of it happening in a dim light,
among the flowers, and ferns, and things.

September 7th. — It does cut me to the heart to
be so cruel to Cecil, and it hurts me ever so much
more to be so kind to Tom. But this at any rate
will be the last day of it. I have given the plan
every chance now, and I do not mean to conceal
my real feelings so completely for the future.

Mr. Merle came for tennis this afternoon. I
made papa take him off to see our collection of
early prayer-books. When he came back I had
managed to get rid of Aunt Mary, and was
seated in the summer-house alone with Tom. I
was distinctly cold in my manner to Cecil, and
tried to make him feel de trop. I thought he
would be very furious ; but he was not. He was
very polite, and seemed to be very careful what
he was saying. He left early. I must get
ready for dinner, and have no time to write any
more now, but I shall add a word or two perhaps
when I come up to bed.

10.80. — It is all over! Let me set down as
calmly as my despair will allow me how every-
thing happened.

After dinner Tom suggested that I should go
out with him into the garden, as it was cool
and pleasant there. I thought this would be
a good opportunity to begin to let him down

RURAL SIMPLICITY 61

easily; so I went with him. But I could not
let him down, because he hardly spoke; he
seemed strange in his manner, I thought. We
wandered into the conservatory, where it was
almost dark ; and then quite suddenly he put
his arm round my waist, and — kissed me. I
die with shame ! How can men be such brutes
— such gross, coarse, unmannerly brutes! I
told him that I hated him ; he wanted to excuse
himself, but I would not listen, and hurried
back into the drawing-room.

Papa was standing on the hearth-rug with an
open letter in his hand, which he had been read-
ing to Aunt Mary. She looked at me rather
curiously. The letter was from Cecil — no, Mr.
Merle; for I must call him Cecil no longer —
and apologized for not coming to sav good-by.
He has been suddenly called away, and is going
abroad, probably for two years.

Oh, my heart is broken, and I would that my
life might end to-night !

4 — FROM THE " DAILY TELEGRAPH " OF SEPT. 7ra
(A YEAR LATER)

LEADER — MARSHE. — On the 4th inst., at St.
Margaret's, Carleston, by the Rev. Patrick
Downs, Charles, eldest son of the late Charles
Leader, of Tredennick, Cornwall, to Millicent,
only daughter of the late Rev. Hubert Marshe,
formerly rector of Carleston.

IV

CONGEALED ART
(EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF EDWARD TINNERSLEY)

March 21st. — Dined to-night with the Mer-
ricks. There were a lot of people there. The
Birnleys looked as profuse as ever. Old Dr.
Farnham told the story of the blind zebra once
more. Eric Thorn bored me. And I forgave
them all, because I was too pleased with myself
to bear enmity to anybody — in a word, I do be-
lieve that I am at last making some progress
with Maud. I blundered before, because I did
not quite understand her. And now I believe
that I know her better than she knows herself ;
and consequently I can play my cards — I can
create the right impression.

Maud Merrick, my tall, noble beauty, you
would be very angry if you could read this.
You are affectionate, but you use always a
decent reserve. You would not care to know
that anybody had seen through the veil, and
knew all your little likes and dislikes, all your
personal qualities, and even the one or two in-

CONCEALED ART 63

firmities of your character. I know them all,
my dear Maud, and I do not mind telling you
in the pages of my diary — that you want too
much. Your ideal man, the man you are look-
ing for, the man you mean to marry, does not
exist, and never did exist except in books. You
want, in the man of your choice, intellect, cour-
age, strength, physique, chivalry, and purity.
You do not care for either birth or wealth. We
none of us care for birth really, and we all pre-
tend to ; we all care very much for wealth, and
all pretend not to. (Mem. — Work this into
epigrammatic form, and use it.) But you are
quite genuine about it ; you really do not care
for either. And yet, on the whole, you ask too
much. Take myself, for instance. I can give
you intellect, but I must draw my pen through
the remainder of your list of requirements.
What does it matter? Having intellect, I can
make you believe that I have all, or nearly all,
the rest. Maud Merrick, you are clever in your
way, but I am cleverer, and I gain some advan-
tage from having absolutely no scruples. You
may throw down your cards. The game is
won, and I have won it.

Physique? Well, I must let that pass. I
have not the beefy good looks of Eric Thorn.
No amount of intellect can make a five-foot-six
man, bent with the sedentary profession of au-
thorship, into a straight young giant like Thorn.

64 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

There he has the advantage of me, and he may
make the most of it. I am not fool enough to
sneer at his good points to her. I gaze admir-
ingly at him, playing tennis at a little distance,
and say to her, " What a splendid fellow Eric
is! It is a positive pleasure to look at him.

Ah ! I'd give all I have in the world to "

and then I stop short. I do not sigh, because
that would be unmanly, and would seem to
make too much of it. I look rather sad, and
then cheer up suddenly, as if with a slight
effort, and talk brightly to her about something
impersonal. A girl I knew once told me that
she rather liked me when I looked sad, but that
when I laughed, or when I was angry, my face
was positively hideous. I think she was right.
My dear Maud, I did all this, and I was
charmed to find that the little trick made every
point that I intended. You noted my generos-
ity to a rival, and associated it in your mind
with chivalry; you noted my humility; you
noted that I lingered on so personal a subject
as my own appearance only for the second when
my enthusiastic admiration of Eric reminded
me of it, and that I turned back at once to the
decent reserve which is a sign of strength, and
which you yourself maintain so well ; you noted
my sadness and sympathized. That was why
you said a pretty thing to me about my book,
"AFroward Woman," soon afterward. You

CONCEALED AKT C5

wish to console me ; if you console me now, you
will love me soon.

Courage? I have not got a particle of it.
Men of delicate taste, of the subtle, critical
faculty, of poetical imagination, are often
cowards. I am a coward, and I make you be-
lieve, Maud, that I am brave. How? Chiefly
by telling you that I am a coward. It is just a
little amusing that it should be so, but it is.

" I hate going over Putney Bridge at night.
I am always afraid that some poor wretch will
jump into the water, and that I shall not dare
to jump off the bridge after him."

You replied just as I knew I should make
you reply. " You would do it, though, because
you think you wouldn't. No coward ever dares
to confess cowardice."

You were a little pleased at your own insight
into human nature, and you believed what you
said. You are one of those women who like to
go a little deep ; but I always know precisely
how deep you will go, and I go a little deeper.

Chivalry and purity? Ah, Maud, I need say
nothing ; you will believe the best, because you
have no reason to think otherwise. You do not
know the story of that girl I knew once, who
said she rather liked me when I looked sad. I
will take care you never know it. Though I
am writing in cipher and in a diary which is
always kept under lock and key, I do not care
5

66 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

to put down that story. I have no scruples ; I
do things ; but I sometimes hate myself for a
little while when I think about them afterward.

I got on very well with Maud to-night. Her
father and Lady Merrick both like me, I think.
The dinner itself was capital, and I was in a
good talking mood. But I am getting into the
habit of bringing out my impromptus a little
too quickly. A slight pause makes them look
more natural; if the pause is too long they seem
labored and not really impromptu. It is not an
easy thing to get quite right; I must practise
it. When one dines with the Merricks, I find
that one has to be kind to the Birnleys. That
is a little hard on me, because I hate the nou-
veau riche, and also because I have some par-
ticularly smart things ready to say about the
Birnleys. However, Maud will have it so.
She says that they are awfully good-hearted
people, and not really vulgar, but only a little
ignorant, and that they are sensitive and quick
to see when a jest is aimed at them. (Mem. —
Work off the smart things in a sketch of the
nouveau riche. Found it on the Birnleys and
describe their country-house. Tell the story of
how Birnley shot the keeper.) Maud sang one
song to-night — some Italian thing, I don't know
the name. She has a fine contralto.

I walked back with Thorn, and we talked
about old college days together. That man is

CONCEALED ART 67

a damnable nuisance. In speaking of college
days to Maud, I must either tell the plain truth
or run the risk that she will find me out from
Thorn. And I can't use any of my old good
things in talking to her, because she might
quote them to Thorn, and he has heard them all
before. How the brute would jeer at me for
the repetition !

My diary, I think I should go mad without
you. It rests me to write in your pages with-
out effort. I need not mind being dull here.
In my talk and my books I have to maintain a
reputation. Here I can be dull and I can tell
the truth. I feel to-night like a tired actor,
glad to get into his dressing-room and be rid of
his wig and make-up. (Mem. — Might elaborate
that sentence a little, and then use it.) I will
not write any more now. I am going to bed.
I ought to do some work first, but I cannot.
My brain is full of madness and Maud. If I
am to get any sleep, I must go back to the old
remedy. But I will never use it again after
to-night.

March 30th. — I have just finished my sketch
of the Birnleys, and I really do not think I ever
did anything better in my life. I stopped at
their place for a month last year, and I flatter
myself that I have got the people, the house,
and the furniture, with the accuracy of a photo-
graph. I've just touched it up a little in places,

68 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

but that is all. I've made Mrs. Birnley a shade
more vulgar, perhaps, than she really is. I
shall call it " The Barnsley Menagerie." I shall
not put my initials to it, because that would
ruin me with Maud, and would also stop the
Birnleys from inviting me this year. I shall
send it to The Drop Scene because none of them
know that I write for that paper. Eric Thorn
had a story in it last week — sporting and stupid,
like its author. That man would make a very
good navvy. What ails him that he should be
called to the bar and dabble in literature?

April 3d. — Eric Thorn has just been here.
He has proposed to Maud Merrick, and has been
refused. I am glad.

"We're old friends," he said to me, "and I
thought I would tell you all about it. No one
can read your book, ' A Froward Woman, ' and
doubt your sympathy, old man."

I assured him that I was sorry for him, deeply
sorry.

" Yes, Ted , " he replied, " I know it. I thought
once that I had a chance. She seemed to like
me once, and then she found out that I knew
the author of 'A Froward Woman, ' and asked
me — or made Lady Merrick ask me — to bring
you there. Well, the natural consequences
have followed . I can't talk as you can. You're
always sparkling and amusing. And you're a
better fellow."

CONCEALED ART 09

I said something deprecatory here, but ho
went on.

" No, Ted, I am quite right. Do you know
what she said to me before she ever met you?
She said that she thought the author of ' A Fro-
ward Woman' must have a noble nature. I
reminded her of that the other day, and asked
her if she thought she was right. 'I know I
was right,' she replied. It was the nearest
thing to a confidence I ever had from her. You
always depreciate yourself when you are talk-
ing, but you sometimes let a little thing drop by
accident, or do not quite succeed in hiding it.
I've noticed those little things, and they are
all evidence that Maud was right. You may
sneer at yourself as much as you please, but you
don't deceive me. You have a noble nature,
nobler than mine. Besides, you are my intel-
lectual superior. Look at your fame in the
world. I have written a lot of things, and I've
only got one story printed. It was in The Drop
Scene. Did you see the note about it in The
London Eevieiv this week — cutting it all to
bits? "

I said that I had not seen the note. I wrote
it, by the way. I also asked him what his
point was in accusing me of being noble and
intellectual.

"Because your absurd humility has made
you blind. Let me ask you one question —

70 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

we are old friends. Do you like Maud Mer-
rick? "

" I love her with all my soul," I said solemnly,
seeing what was coming. '

" And you never told her, because you knew
that I loved her too, and because you wanted to
give me the first chance."

I assumed an unnatural manner, and inten-
tionally spoke a little more quickly than usual.
" No, no — not at all — you're quite mistaken. I
only waited to be quite sure that she loved me,
and I never thought you would speak so soon.
On my word, I would have done you a bad turn
with her, if I could." What a curious thing
human nature is ! Every word of this was true,
and yet he didn't believe it. I had an impres-
sion that he wouldn't believe it.

"My dear fellow," said Thorn, "why try to
hide your generosity by talking such absolute
nonsense? She herself told me that you were
always singing my praises to her."

My dear simpleton, didn't you know that it
is quite possible to ruin a man's chances with
a woman by praising him very carefully? I
praised you, my dear Thorn, with the utmost
discretion. He continued :

" In this point I am going to try not to be less
generous than you. I feel sure that Maud Mer-
rick loves you. I suspected it even before I
spoke to her, and I only spoke because I could

CONCEALED ART 71

not bear the suspense any longer. It may
seem strange that I — a rejected lover — should
come to tell you this, but I felt that I owed it
to you ; besides, I want her to be happy. You
are the only man in the world who can make
her happy."

I thanked him. " And you? " I asked.

" I'm going away, Ted, going to travel and
forget it. I start on the 8th. I will see you
again before I go."

He went soon after this. He looks terribly
knocked over. All this is going splendidly.
Now I have three things before me — a letter to
write to Sir Charles Merrick, two-thirds of a
bottle of very excellent brandy, and the proofs
of "The Barnsley Menagerie" to correct. I
will take them in that order.

April 5th. — Maud, my beautiful Maud, has
promised to be my wife.

April 6th. — A most terrible thing has hap-
pened. The Drop Scene has been sent me here
with my article " The Barnsley Menagerie " in
it, signed with my initials.

How on earth did they get there? I must
have added them from force of habit when I
corrected the proof. I remember that it was
late on the night of the 3d that I corrected it.
It was the night I wrote to her father, and then
I ah, yes, I remember now.

As far as I can see, there is nothing to do but

72 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

to calculate what will happen, and then see how
it can be stopped. In the first place, the Birn-
leys will read the article ; they will certainly see
that it is meant for them, and that it must have
been written by some one who stayed at their
place in the country ; they know that I write
for the press and they will see my initials. I
fancy that they will all go mad. They will
call me hard names and will cut me dead for-
ever and ever. Well, I care nothing about the
Birnleys. They may go to the devil.

But Maud — my beautiful, noble Maud — what
will she think? Now I come to think of it, she
will have a little piece of evidence that the
Birnleys will not have, and which will make
her doubly sure that I am the author of that
article. It commences with a little epigram of
mine on birth and wealth. Now, on the day
after I wrote the article, I called at their house
with Eric Thorn. In the course of conversa-
tion I dropped that very epigram. She heard
it and noticed it. I had meant to strike it out
when I got my article in proof, but I suppose I
forgot it. I cannot have been quite m}Tself that
night. She will simply hate me and despise me.
I can imagine her eyes flashing, and the tender
sympathy she will show with her good-hearted
Birnleys. It would be pretty to watch, if one
could be a little more outside it. However, I do
not fancy it is quite checkmate. I will have a

CONCEALED ART 73

quiet pipe, think out a probable story to account
for everything, and go to bed. I am sure my
doctor would recommend me a little chloral
to-night, considering the excited state of my
nerves. What a letter I shall get to-morrow
morning !

April 7th (morning). — Here is the letter. I
see by the date that it was written yesterday :

"Sm: — I read this morning your article in
The Drop Scene, entitled 'The Barnsley Men-
agerie.' Kindly consider my engagement to
you at an end. If you wish for a more definite
reason, I may say that the article must have
been written by an insufferable, vulgar, cruel
cad. I know it is yours by the initials, by your
acquaintance with the Birnleys, and by the fact
that you have used in it an epigram which I
heard from your own lips. On the whole, I am
thankful that you have been so stupid as to
allow your real character to be seen.

" I saw Mr. and Mrs. Birnley this afternoon.
She sat fierce and dry-eyed, reading your spite-
ful article again and again. She hardly spoke
to me. He tried to take it more easily. 'It's
partly my own fault,' he said, 'but it is rather
hard -that we should be treated like this, Maud,
by a man who was our guest. We did our best
to entertain him when he was here. But still
it's partly true — that article. I'm a very good

74 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

manufacturer, but I only made a fool of myself
when I tried to play the country gentleman.
And I'm clumsy with a gun — that's true.' He
paused a second, and then looked at his wife.
'My God! Maud,' he flashed out suddenly, 'if
only I could have the thrashing of the hound
who wrote that ! ' I wish he had. He is an old
man, but vigorous. I think he could thrash you
well. How could you be so cruel to people who
had tried to be kind to you?

" I have no patience to write more. You will
oblige me by not answering this letter, cr call-
ing at our house, or making any attempt what-
ever to see me.

"MAUD MERRICK.

"P. S.—O Ted, how could you do it? I did
really love you once, and now I hate you."

Now, that is not altogether a nice letter to re-
ceive. " An insufferable, vulgar, cruel cad " — I
suppose that is very much what I am, judged
by ordinary standards, but I have always had
wits enough to hide it so far. It's not my fault.
I was born so, and no one could expect me to
do anything else but hide the real self. I do
not really care, as long as I can keep Maud. I
must have Maud. I thought of an explanation
]ast night, but it is not absolutely satisfactory.
I will go and get something particularly pleas-
ant and inspiring in the shape of lunch. I shall

CONCEALED ART 75

bo able to think better after a half-bottle of
champagne.

(Evening.) Eric Thorn has just been here.
Really, he is a most useful person. When he
came in, he was as white as death, and there
was a queer sort of huskiness in his voice.

" Ted, old man," he said, " I've just been tell-
ing lies, any amount of lies."

"All this I steadfastly believe," I replied.
He went on talking :

" I called at the Merricks' to-night to say good-
by. Sir Charles came into the room with that
number of The Drop Scene in his hand, open
at your article: ' Thorn, old fellow, I want you
just to read that. ' There was no one else in the
room. I sat down and read it. Of course, I
saw that it was yours, and that the Merricks
would in all probability have nothing more to
do with you. Ted, how could you write such a
thing about people who were so kind to you? "

This made me a little angry. "Possibly," I
said, " I could give a sufficient explanation to
any one who had a right to ask for it."

" Well, I didn't see how it could be quite ex-
plained away. Yet all the time I was reading
it, I thought I could see how it happened. You
caricatured the Birnleys, but half unconsciously.
Your tremendous power of satire carried you
away, and made you say things that you didn't
really mean. I know that a man who behaved

76 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

with the generosity that you showed to me about
Maud could not possibly do a shabby thing in-
tentionally. I know how hard it is to criticise
one's own work, and I felt sure that you had
failed to see how certain it was that the Birnleys
would be offended. If you had meant it as an
intentional insult, you would not have been fool
enough to put your initials to it, and to com-
mence it with an epigram which both Maud and
myself had heard from your lips. It was the
only slip I ever knew you make, and I felt
sure that you would never do that kind of thing
again, as soon as you saw the distress that it
caused. Well, I knew Maud would give you
up, and break your heart over it and her own
as well. So I made up my mind on the spur of
the moment, and took the liberty of claiming
the authorship of the work as my own. Our
initials are the same, you know, Ted."

" You did that ? " I said. I own that he had
surprised me. "How did you make the old
man believe it? "

" I pointed out that the initials were mine,
that you never wrote for Ilie Drop Scene, and
that I had a story in it a short time before. I
told him that I borrowed the epigram at the
commencement of the article from you, that I
had stopped with the Birnleys, and that I didn't
care for them. I said that I couldn't see much
harm in the article, and that The Drop Scene

CONCEALED ART 77

liked a thing to have a few personalities in
it."

"How did he take it?"

" He was very sad about it. They've known
me for a long time, you see. 'I can't think
how you came to write it, Thorn,' he said.
'You ought not to have done it. You have
caused my daughter and all of us to do a friend
of yours a great injustice ; and you have given
great pain to people whose hospitality you en-
joyed. I hate saying it, but I must — you can-
not come here any more. It is well that you
are leaving the country. Take a word of ad-
vice before you go, from an old man who was
once glad to have you for his friend — if you
can't be smart without being shabby, let it alone
— let it alone, my boy ! ' Then he touched the
bell, a,nd I retired ignominiously. "

He rose to go, paused a moment, and said :
" That's the story I told, and you must back it
up. Good-by, old man. I will find a new
character for myself abroad somewhere."

He tried to hide it, but I could see that he
thought he had acted generously, and naturally
that maddened me. I could not allow him to
think that he had put me under any obligation.
I like to take the conceit out of young men of the
type of Eric Thorn. The self-sacrificing saint
is too provoking for anything.

"I am very sorry, Thorn," I said, "that you

78 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

have destroyed your own character, stolen my
property, and told some most abominable lies,
because it was all unnecessary. I know you did
it for my sake, but you would have served me
better if you had trusted me more. How could
you think I should be such a blackguard as to
caricature a host of mine in the public press? "

"You didn't write it, then ?" he stammered
out.

" Yes, I wrote it — wrote it for practice to im-
prove me in delineation of character — but not
for publication. It was published without my
consent and without my knowledge. Do you
know the editor of The Drop Scene ? "

"No."

I was delighted to learn this. " I am very
sorry to hear it," I said, "because, if you had
known him, you would have understood my
explanation better. He is the most unscrupulous
man engaged on the press, and the finest critic.
I took him my sketch of the Birnleys to look at
and criticise as a literary performance. He
liked it and wanted to print it. I told him
that I would not have it printed. He offered
me a very high price ; I replied that the sketch
was from real life, and that there was not
enough money in London to buy it; that I
would sooner have my right hand cut off than
make fun at the expense of a friend and host of
mine. I took the manuscript away with me

CONCEALED ART 79

there and then. He must have expected this,
for he had had a copy made of it. It was pub-
lished without my consent. I should certainly
have prosecuted."

"And now?"

"Well, now I must leave it."

" It would be possible to explain to the Mer-
ricks my innocent deception, and for you to
clear yourself by telling them what you have
told me. Would not that be best? "

This was a little difficult; for if there had
been a single word of truth in my story of the
unscrupulous editor, it would have been much
the best.

"I think not," I said; "I think not. You
have gone too far. Of course, I know that your
motive for the story you told Sir Charles Mer-
rick was innocent enough. But I might find it
difficult to persuade him of this. As a literary
performance, my article has attracted consider-
able attention ! From that point of view it is
undoubtedly good. I am afraid that Sir Charles
will think that you wanted the literary credit
of it, and then backed out to avoid the moral
infamy. I do not think your position would in
any way be improved."

He looked at me curiously for a second or two.
"Good-by, then," he said. "I'm sorry I was
so stupid and mistaken." He went out in a
dejected, hopeless way. I fancy he has a lurk-

80 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

ing suspicion. Let it lurk! He's going away
and I shall not be bothered with him any more.
So the Merricks believe now that Eric Thorn
wrote that article, do they? I think then that
I will answer Maud's letter in spite of her in-
junctions. I should imagine that my beautiful
Maud wishes now that she had never written it.
Never mind — I can be magnanimous, Maud,
and very high-souled. This is what I shall
write to you, Maud :

" DEAR Miss MERRICK : — I am sorry that you
could ever have imagined that I wrote 'The
Barnsley Menagerie.' Had I done so, you
would have been quite just in your criticism
of me.

" I can only prove to you that I did not write
it by telling you who the real author is, and this
I cannot do. He confessed the authorship to
me in confidence. Perhaps he may afterward
decide to let his name be known. But, if he
does not, I cannot tell you — I cannot break my
word to him.

" ' I co.uld not love thee half so much,
Loved I not honor more. '

" Forgive me for having disobeyed your com-
mand by writing this letter. I could not rest
until I had made an appeal to you to believe my
word for the present, and to trust to time to

CONCEALED ART 81

prove the truth of it. Believe me, yours in all
sincerity, EDWARD TINNERSLEY."

And this is what I shall write to the editor of
The Drop Scene :

"DEAR TOM:— No end of a row about 'The
Menagerie.' Keep my name dark, for God's
sake, and I'll do you something ripping for next
week. It's rare sport at present; but the coun-
try wouldn't hold me if it were known that I
wrote it. Say a man called Eric Thorn wrote
it, if asked. It's safe. Yours ever,

"TED TINNERSLEY."

And now I think I may go to bed with a
clear conscience. I shall be able to sleep all
right to-night. Good-night, my darling Maud.
I am afraid that you will lie awake, thinking
of those hard names you called me.

April 8th. — A very pretty, penitent letter
from Maud. She seems really distressed at
having written to me so fiercely. She has not
an atom of pride or reserve left in her now.
" Eric Thorn has confessed that he wrote the
hateful thing. It was noble of you to keep his
name secret because of your promise to him.
Are men always so loyal to their friends? "

That is really very nice. " Forgive me ! for-
give me ! " she says at the close of the letter.

82 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Yes, Maud, I forgive you, and I will call on
you to-day to say so. I am feeling particularly
magnanimous just now. With what sorrow I
shall speak of the shocking behavior of my for-
mer friend, Eric Thorn ! And how really high-
toned I shall be! I really must stop to laugh.

To-night, Maud, you will know the joys of
sin forgiven ; they are not quite so great as the
joys of sins concealed. I have tried both.
(Mem. — Might put that into the mouth of some
cynical blackguard in a story — it's not bad.)

In a few months' time, Maud, you will be
mine indeed ; and then will come the disillusion.
You will know that I really am what you once
called me, "a vulgar, cruel cad." I was born
so. I tried to be better once, but it was of no
use. There is a certain horror about that which
comes over me suddenly sometimes. It is an
awful thing to be hateful and to know that it
is of no use to try to be anything else. In the
midst of success, and high spirits, and jeers at
everything, that thought suddenly comes over
me, and I writhe. I seem to see the devil him-
self sitting in the room with me, looking at me
and smiling horribly. And with him is that
other girl of whom I have spoken — she drowned
herself. She does not smile. She just sits and
scares — no, I won't write any more. (Mem.—
Some of the above paragraphs might be useful
for a sketch of character, called "Remorse.")

THE DEVIL'S AUCTION

Now, gentlemen, your offers. This maiden

sings and dances,
She's beautiful, and innocent, and lively as

the day.
You bid a fortune? Thank you, sir. I'm

waiting for advances ;
And you a life's devotion? Here, take that

boy away.
A title? Come, that's better. Now it's going,

going, going-
She is but seventeen, sirs, and lovely as you

see —
Gone! Madam, you're the property, you will

be pleased at knowing,
Of a genial old roue of the age of sixty -three.

Now here's a nice cold chicken and a bottle

from the ice, sirs —
Ah, you dramatic critics, aren't you hungry?

Won't you bid?

Won't some one offer me his soul — a very mod-
erate price, sirs?

You sold your soul last week, sir? Yes —
dear me — of course you did !
83

84 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Here's a ticket for n, prize-fight. The magis-
trate's the winner,
After some sharp contention — the bidding's

getting bold.
Here's a poet. What, no offers? Won't some

one bid a dinner?

Take the brute away and drown him; he
never will be sold.

And lastly I would offer here an over-dose of

chloral.
That boy again? Bids twopence? Why

don't you turn him out?
I may mention that the notion that suicide's

immoral
Is an antiquated fallacy — it's utterly played

out.

We cannot think of twopence ; now, I'm wait-
ing for advances —
There's not a death more painless, and I'll

guarantee it true —
Oh ! Here's a better offer from the maid who

sings and dances.

Thank you, maiden — I'd a fancy I should sell
this lot to you.

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD
A VIGIL

IT was quite a little room. The window
looked out on a garden, on an orchard beyond
it, and on the old quiet hills that had made the
child understand what " far away " meant. She
had heard, months ago, the bees monotonously,
musically busy among the garden flowers ; she
had watched in the orchard the blossoms delicate
with the fragile grace of immaturity, and when
the autumn came, she had seen the boughs
twisted and bent with their effort to do good,
with their burden of fruit; she had strayed
through the park-land ; she had seen the sun
set over the hills, when far up the sky went the
touch of pale gold on clouds that were like
angels' wings. Her eyes had grown brighter,
always, and her thoughts stranger as she
watched; it had made her, the child of a musi-
cian, want to hear the music that in her serious
moments had seemed to understand her best.
She was not to see such things, nor hear them,
nor understand any more. On this eve of the
85

86 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

New Year she lay motionless, arranged with
white hands crossed, on the bed in one corner
of the room ; the trees in the orchard were gaunt
and black, mocked by cruel winds; the snow
drove and drove ; the year's last day died out in
darkness.

Everything in the little room — a little room
in a great house — was very neat and orderly.
Some one had taken away from the low table
by the bedside the row of medicine bottles —
grim reminders of futile effort — and had placed
there an old blue-and- white bowl, full of Christ-
mas roses. In the fireplace the logs burned
brightly. She did not need the grace of the
flowers nor the warmth of the fire any more.
But some one had seen to these things — had
done them from a sentiment ; nearly all the best
things that one does are done from a sentiment.
Flowers and fire were useless ; but when that
sweet child lay dead, to those in the great house
all things had seemed useless. She had been
very dear to all of them; they thought her
lovelier, brighter, gentler than other children.
Yet her chief charm was, perhaps, that she had
returned their affection; she had loved people
very easily — even unlikely people. Downstairs
the servants who had waited on her were ludi-
crously pathetic; it was a chance whether one
who had seen them would have laughed or felt
like weeping. Two maids, who had known

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 87

enmity from some jealousy about that child,
now snuffled together in common sorrow, gro-
tesquely genuine. " And Mr. Richards feels it
too," said one of them, ''though it's little as Mr.
Richards ever shows." Richards was the old
butler, a stern man, made cynical possibly by
too intimate a knowledge of the wine trade.
He was in his pantry, polishing silver very
briskly, almost jauntily ; ho caught sight of her
cup, a christening gift; he recalled how she
had once wrung from his sternness some slight
concession about a new footman, really by no
means up to his work; ho began at once to
whistle the gayest of tunes in a desperate whis-
pered whistle, then stopped suddenly, made an
involuntary curious sound in his throat, and
went on polishing furiously. Later on his
manner grew icy.

From her room one could now have heard
very faintly the sound of the organ being played
in the wide gallery which ran from wing to
wing of the house. It was her father, the great
composer, who was playing. She had been his
only child, and her mother had died in her baby-
hood. So he was alone now. He had been
saying that to himself during the day : " I am
quite alone now . " There were other people in
the house, relations more or less near ; but, as
far as his sorrow was concerned, they were a
hundred miles away. He had been happy, as

88 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

some count happiness; he had loved his art and
had been great in it ; he had wealth, and could
follow art for art's sake. Only he was human
and had not escaped human joys, nor the sor-
rows that follow them so closely ; he had loved
a wife and child, and he had lost them. That
afternoon he had sat quite alone in his studio,
thinking. A salver, laden with letters, was
brought into the room. He opened a few of
the letters. They were all well-meaning, and
yet so futile. He felt that he could read no
more of them, and that he could not keep quiet
and inactive any longer. He went up into the
long gallery and paced up and down. Then he
arranged the mechanism which blew the organ,
and opened the instrument, and lit the candles
on either side of it. The rest of the gallery lay
in darkness. And then he s-at down to play.
The music was sorrow without consolation;
religion without hope.

In the little room the flicker of fire-light fell
on the golden hair and delicate upturned face of
that sweet child. Did it matter to the rest of
the world — to things that are inarticulate, or
even voiceless, and, as some think, inanimate?
Were the flowers that she had loved sorry, or
the winds that had played in her hair? Per-
haps on that bleak eve of the New Year there
was something said that one would not have
heard as one hears a voice, which might through

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 80

a dream have won its way to words. What did
the Christmas roses think about it in that old
blue-and- white bowl on the table by her side?
Was it all nothing to them when that sweet
child lay dead? '

It was sheer carelessness, of course, and had
not been done with any evil intention at all.
But that did not alter the facts of the case — his
stem was not in the water, and he had felt a
little wilted at the very outset.

Flowers choose their own names, and this one
had called himself Wilkinson. He had seen
the name on a scrap of newspaper that had been
blown down the garden walk, and never ought
to have been there, and was the under-gardener's
fault. Wilkinson knew that owing to sheer
carelessness his death would be hastened by
some few hours; he did not mind the death
(flowers, possibly from vanity, love to be cut
and put in vases ; and it is heaven to them to
be worn in a girl's hair), but he did object to
anything like carelessness. He liked people to
do their whole duty. Even while selecting the
name of Wilkinson he had deprecated the un-
tidiness of the under-gardener.

" Cut me and put me in a bowl, if you like, "
he remarked snappishly. "If you think mo
beautiful, you couldn't do any better. Only
do it. Don't half do it. Don't leave me with

90 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

my stem out of the water in this sickening way.
If you do, you commit sin; and I can't bear to
S3e it done." He was not addressing any of the
other flowers in particular, he was merely solilo-
quizing on the subject of strict duty, which
was an unpleasing habit that he had. No
flowers care in the least about death, except tho
sweet violets, who have some mysterious love
secrets of their own, never properly understood,
which they do not like to be interrupted. Few
flowers are quite so strict or quite so sharp-
tempered as Wilkinson was.

"It wasn't her fault," pleaded a little bud,
called Candor, who had been looking at the sweet
child- motionless on her bed.

"My dear child," said Wilkinson, rather
patronizingly, " how very young you are ! Any
one could tell you were a bud. Don't you know
that sweet child's dead? She's no use — can't
put flowers in water any more — so they'll throw
her away. They ought to have thrown her
away before, I should have thought ; but human
beings are always so careless and untidy."

"She's very pretty," said Candor; "very
pretty indeed. I wish they had put me in her
hair. Who was it placed us in this bowl? "

" Ah ! yes. You were too young to remember
it. It was Richards who put us here — and left
my stem out of the water. How mad such
thoughtlessness does make me! You're too

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 91

young to be worn in a girl's hair. But Richards
might perhaps have selected something — some-
thing a little more full blown. I don't refer to
myself in particular, of course, although for the
matter of that, as far as mature beauty is con-
cerned— well, well, it's not for me to say."

" Death is very beautiful. Do human beings
like to die?"

Wilkinson shrugged his petals impatiently.
" What a perfectly bud-like remark ! Death is
not beautiful. Death is nothing. You simply
stop, that's all. As you are generally feeling
rather faded, you're not sorry to stop. But
you're not particularly glad. It's pleasanter, of
course, to die in a girl's hair than to live in a
garden, especially where the under-gardener's
so grossly untidy. I believe you have been
talking to those violets," he added, rather
sharply.

" No, really, I haven't. Why did you ask
that? "

"They've got some sentimental ideas about
death. No, I don't suppose human beings mind
it. I don't see how they can mind a thing
which is of absolutely no importance."

" They live longer than we do. "

" They live an unconscionable time, most of
them, especially under-gardeners. That is prob-
ably because they have not our advantages,
and do not understand. That child has stopped

92 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

rather early — yes, she is a sweet child. I can
remember when I was quite a bud, she went
past laughing. You should have seen the sun-
light on her hair ! "

There was a long pause. Candor spoke at
last :

"Wilkinson, do you think anything really
stops, or is it just seeming? She is so pretty,
and you remember her laughter, and any
flower would have been glad to die in that beau-
tiful hair. It can't have all been to no purpose. "

Wilkinson was distressed — deeply distressed.
" You pain and grieve me more than I can say.
The old faiths are all going. Have you not
been taught to believe in the nothingness of
everything? "Why do you listen to the hideous
voice of emotion? "

Candor grew almost passionate. "I must.
If I did not listen I should not know what to do
for sorrow! She is lovely. She is an angel's
dream — not dead, but corne true at last. Sweet
child, speak to me and tell me that I am right.
Speak only once and tell me this trifling — this
life and death — is not everything. Tell me that
there is more beyond — beyond."

"You are sickly and heterodox," said Wil-
kinson sternly. " There is nothing beyond. I
believe — nay, I know — that death is entire ces-
sation. And I am going to drop."

He dropped f ragmen tarily. It is ordained

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 93

that in its last moments even the tidiest flower
shall be untidy. And Candor still waited; but
all was silent in that little room.

Now, the winds are spirits, lost spirits ; they
never rest, and they ever long for rest.

That night a great wind swept past the house,
ice-cold and howling with misery. It beat on
the windows of that little room until they
shook ; and then it went flying onward through
the driving snow. After it came another, softly
pattering, like the pattering of a child's feet as it
shuffles through the crisp, fallen leaves. These
two winds were spirits, without shape to human
eyes ; and yet a dreamer — a musician, perhaps,
seated at the organ, alone with sorrow — might
have imagined something. He might have
seen them — the first like a gaunt woman, with
flying robes and hair; the second like a girl-
child, with an old man's malice and a devil's
cruelty in her look, and to the dreamer their
voices might have grown articulate.

"Perdita," said the young wind, as side by
side they sped onward into the night, " did you
not see as we went past the house? In one of
the rooms a child is lying ; a beautiful child,
and she is dead ; I shook the window to frighten
her, but she never moved. Can I not do any-
thing to hurt her? I hate all beautiful things."

"No, we can do nothing, Ira. I, too, used

94 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

to hate as you hate, but with me it has worn
itself out. I am tired, and cold, and miserable.
But there is no rest — no rest anywhere. We
can do nothing to hurt that child and nothing
to help her. She is dead."

" I would help no one, but I would hurt her.
Can we not reach her, even though she be dead ?
What is death?"

Perdita seemed now to be speaking to herself
rather than Ira. " It was a thousand years ago
that they sent me here — they to whom a thousand
years are but as a day. Beyond this world, be-
yond the tangle of which this world is a thread,
I lived in broader space, in brighter light, in
warmer, clearer air. I do not remember what
it was that I did, but for my punishment they
sent me here to roam forever up and down. For
a thousand years I have never rested ; I have
seen the children of men grow up, and fall, and
die ; and I have found out many secrets ; but I
do not yet know what death is."

"I too," said Ira, "came from that place of
which you speak. With me it was but a day
ago ; yet I, too, cannot remember what it was
that I did. But I have been punished — punished
Until there is nothing left in me but hatred. I
long to wreck the ships and tear down the
trees. Nothing will make me happy any more,
and I am most miserable when I destroy. Yet
I cannot help longing to destroy."

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD1 LAY DEAD 95

"It does not matter," Perdita answered.
" The longing will wear itself out. You may
grow gentle and play with the flowers. That
will not matter either. You will always be
unhappy and you will never rest. Oh, if one
could rest! If one could be still for a little
while, only a little while ! "

" In that great house the child that was dead
was still — motionless. What is death? "

There was a pause — a long pause before the
voice of Perdita spoke in reply :

"Can it be? Can it be that we are already
dead? Can it be that the punishment of which
we spoke was nothing else but death, and that
death means the torture of endless unrest? Per-
haps the spirit of that child is out in this lonely
night, suffering as we suffer."

"I feared that you would say it," whispered
Ira. " It is quite true. This night that child
is with us. Did I want to hurt her? That was
foolish of me." And Ira laughed savagely.

The two winds sped on together, past an iron
coast, over a dark, desolate sea, and on and on.
In the long gallery of the house the music was
changed ; into its sorrow had entered that tragic
anger which knows its own impotence.

The night had grown very quiet. The furi-
ous winds had passed; the sky had cleared.
Over the wide lands lay the fallen snow. The

9(3 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

child's father had risen from the organ and
opened one of the windows. He stood there
looking out. Perhaps it was because he thought
of the gentleness of falling snow, or because its
wonderful whiteness seemed almost like a con-
scious kindness: but as he looked out into the
tranquil night his anger ceased. Far off he
heard the flooded river sweep the base of the
bridge, and the monotonous sound seemed to
him like a consolation, like a consoling voice :

" I am glad because I draw near to the sea. I
shall die, but I shall not be really lost. It is
only change. I give myself to the sea, and in
return I enter into its strength. The life of a
man is but the bandage that blinds his eyes ;
and he shall never see the great secret until he
himself is part of it. All the rivers run into
the sea, and all the lives run into the life eternal.
No gain is greater than that loss of self."

His own thoughts followed the voice of the
river. Could it be that our identity, which we
valued so much, was better lost? He had no
patience to think the thing out, but he liked
that idea of all the lives flowing into the life
eternal. He found himself believing in the
river's guess-work ; or else he had grown tran-
quil under the tranquillity of the night ; or else,
perhaps, this quietness was but reaction follow-
ing upon action, and the bitterness of sorrow
had exhausted itself. He cared very little what

WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 97

the reason might be. He only knew that he
was in some wonderful way consoled. Death
was not annihilation. Death was not punish-
ment. Death was just the loss of individuality
and the gain of something far greater; some-
thing which possibly the saints thought when
they spoke of perfect communion and of peace
that cannot be understood.

He turned instinctively to symbolism and
analogy. That thing for which lovers long —
that total surrender of self to the beloved, which
love ever desires and ever misses, is the gift that
death has for us. By death we merge into that
fulfilment which is past words.

And past music?

He turned once more to the organ — to that
mysterious language that can be translated into
no known tongue.

"And," said Richards, next morning, "as I
stood at the fur end, he began to play. You
won't believe me, Mrs. Smith, and I can't hardly
believe myself, but it was one of the 'appiest
toons I ever heard him play — regular light.
Well, thinks I to myself, this is queer; and
there, all of a sudden-like, 'e drops 'is 'ands
and bends 'is 'ead low — this way — and begins
sobbing — great, gaspin' sobs. I couldn't bear
it. I come away. It was too awful ! "
7

VI
THE MAGIC MORNING

THE sunlight fell with steady brightness
through the haze of a hot morning. A breath
of wind came across the heath, over the dusty
road, and down the strip of scented garden that
lay in front of the white cottage. It lingered
for a moment over some very dark wall-flowers,
and then passed through the open window into
the lower room on the left of the porch, to see
what Mervyn Vallend and his young wife Joyce
were going to have for breakfast. The pale
yellow curtains moved into soft folds as the
wind passed ; there was no one in the room. It
was Sunday, and breakfast was not till nine
o'clock. The little silver clock — it had been a
wedding present, and looked it — showed that it
still wanted a few minutes to nine. The break-
fast-table seemed appealing and rather solitary ;
it was quite ready. Everything on it was fresh
and spotless. There were a handful of loosely-
made white roses in a low glass bowl in the
centre ; the shaft of mote-speckled light touched
the bright silver and a crimson fragrant heap of

THE MAGIC MORNING 99

strawberries. They lay on their green leaves,
and hoped that Joyce would like them when
she came downstairs. It was a pretty room,
and everything in it seemed very much as it
should be.

Joyce loved the extra hour of rest on Sunday
mornings. On week-days breakfast was in-
clined to be rather a hurried affair, because
Mervyn had to catch the train which took him
up to the city, and Joyce never felt properly
awake at eight o'clock. The extra hour made
all the difference. Just at present she was gaz-
ing meditatively into the looking-glass. She
had a sweet, delicate face, gray eyes, and soft
fair hair. She was trying to remember the
dream she had had during the night ; and only
had an indistinct idea that it had been a very
happy dream. She had been still asleep when
Mervyn got up to go down to the river for a
swim before breakfast. As she turned from
the looking-glass she saw through the window
across the heath ; Mervyn was coming back
along the narrow track that wound through the
golden broom and brambles with wet glistening
leaves. Joyce turned again to the looking-glass
for a second, made some imperceptible feminine
alteration, and then ran lightly downstairs, and
stood in the porch waiting for him. She had a
slight tremble at her heart; and a reason for it.
She had only been married two years, and yet

100 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

last night she had nearly hated Mervyn. She
did not hate him now.

He came slowly and easily over the heath.
He was wearing flannels. His towel was flung
over his shoulder. His cap was pushed at the
back of his untidy brown hair. His face was
thin and sunburnt. He was tall and straight,
and looked younger than he really was. He,
too, was wondering at the change this magic
morning had made in him. For last night he
had thought, almost with despair, that he
should never love Joyce any more.

Yet nothing unusual had happened to bring
about the sad state of things which had existed
on the Saturday. Had anything unusual hap-
pened, all might have been well; for they had
the sensitive temperament which is irritated by
the persistently ordinary and is attracted by
the unusual. They had both of them, from the
very first, been rather too much inclined to
think that things would be different with them
than with other people. They had expected
love's ecstasy to last ; to be always together, and
apart from the rest of the world ; to live in a
continuous exaltation of spirit ; to have a per-
petual summer — gentle, cultured, and idyllic —
in the white cottage, away from the dirt and
din of the city. In a word, they had quite for-
gotten about action and reaction ; they had been
a little too self-conscious. They were not prigs ;

THE MAGIC

Mervyn was too masculine and Joyce was too
feminine for that ; besides, an absence of con-
ceit and the presence of a sense of humor saved
both of them from being prigs. But in the
ecstasy of their love for each other a little of
their common sense had evaporated. Even the
arrangement of the furniture in the white cot-
tage was rather sentimental.

And the ecstasy had not lasted. It never
lasts. So surely as you go upward from one
side of the hill, you must, when you have
reached the summit, go downward on the other.
There are those who have grown bitter about
this necessity. And yet it is sometimes very
pleasant and quiet in the valley. Mervyn and
Joyce had not quite got down into the valley
yet, and were feeling rather lost. For a few
months after their marriage, Mervyn had gone
on making fresh and exquisite discoveries in
Joyce's nature; chance words of hers, little
gestures, her choice of flowers and music, seemed
to illuminate the reason why she was so lovable.
Then he reached the point when there seemed
to be no more discoveries to make. She was
like a beautiful prayer or poem that has been
learned by heart and has been said so often that
it has lost its meaning. And there were besides
a few disillusions. She was too human to be
quite perfect. Just that turn of her tempera-
ment which made her love the fanciful stories

AND INTERLUDES

and verses that Mervyn wrote from time to
time also made her a little unpractical. Some-
times she forgot how much the most spiritual
happiness depends on the most material things.
At first, Mervyn had thought nothing of occa-
sional discomfort ; but there came a time when
he noticed it. Joyce was delicate; it was for
this reason that Mervyn had taken the white
cottage; and sometimes, when he got back from
the city, Joyce was too tired to take much notice
of him — to sing to him or talk to him. Then
he would reproach himself for not being able to
take more care of her, for not being able to give
her a more easeful and luxurious life, for not
having waited until he had secured a better
position before he married her. For Mervyn
was not mad enough to think that he could live
by writing fanciful verses ; they only were one
of his pleasures; as far as business was con-
cerned, he was the least possible partner in his
father's uurom antic firm. He would be a fairly
rich man one day; but at present he was poor
enough to find himself frequently irritated by
limitations. Sometimes the thought had passed
through him swiftly, and the night before it
had not passed, but had lingered on and on —
perhaps it would have been better if he had
not married Joyce ; Joyce was not fitted to be
the wife of a poor man. Last night he had
feared that his love for her was slowly wearing

THE MAGIC MORNING 103

itself out. She, too, had been through similar
experiences; she had begun to think that she
was losing his sympathy ; she did little things on
purpose to please him, and he never noticed
them. Besides, it was rather lonely in the
white cottage when Mervyn was away in the
city ; and she hated the work of housekeeping,
though she did it as faithfully as she could.
And there were small worries which tried her
and made her fear that she was losing her sweet
temper. She had cried herself to sleep on Sat-
urday night, being filled with the idea that
Mervyn would have been much happier if he
had married a capital housemaid.

They had not openly quarrelled. On the
Saturday afternoon Mervyn got back from the
city rather earlier than he had expected ; he was
hot and irritated by some petty business wor-
ries. He found the white cottage rather dish-
evelled. An unclean charwoman was defiling
the staircase with her presence. Joyce had
been doing accounts ; and the accounts were all
wrong ; and her fingers were all inky. She had
a headache, and was depressed, and not in-
clined to make very much of Mervyn. He
walked to the looking-glass and found that he
had a smut on his nose. It had probably been
there all the hateful morning. He swore gently
under his breath ; Joyce heard him and looked
hurt. He repented, and asked her to come out.

104 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

She reminded him that she had the accounts to
do. He told her, rather self -righteously, that
she should have got the accounts done before.
She, looking as if she were being burned at the
stake, but was determined not to mind it, re-
plied that she had a headache. One knows
how such conversations end. Saturday evening
was passed almost in silence. It was all child-
ish enough, but troubles do not have to be
rational to be troublesome. And these childish
troubles had started in both of them a most per-
nicious train of thought, ending in the entirely
unfounded belief that they were not suited for
each other, and did not love each other. But
now all these troubles were yesterday's delu-
sions; they could not stand before this magic
morning.

Mervyn had paused a second just before leav-
ing the bedroom to go down to the river, and
had turned back to look at his sleeping wife.
There was a look on her face that he had never
seen there before ; it was a look to win love and
reverence ; it was the dignity of a sleeping Ma-
donna. He took off his cap and, bending over
her, kissed her on the forehead — gently so as
not to wake her. Then he went downstairs, and
out through the porch, and up the narrow strip
of garden. Yes, the weather was glorious ; but
mere weather was not enough to account for

THE MAGIC MORNING 105

the splendid exhilaration that filled him. He
felt that he liked everything immensely. He
watched the bees busy at the work that had
been given them; he caught the fragrance of
the dark wall-flowers; he heard the repeated
calls of the birds — the clear tremble, rise
and fall of their music. It was all old; it
had all been so before ; yet now there was a new
wonder in it. There was a new delight in the
refreshing plunge into the cold river, and the
long, steady swim up against the stream. He
was still thinking of this as he came back across
the heath. He seemed to have an excess of
strength and spirit, a fresh power of enjoyment.
As he entered the garden he looked up and saw
Joyce — a sweet, graceful figure in gray and
white — standing in the porch. There was a
light in her eyes which showed him that she
too had felt the magic of the morning. Both
knew that there was sympathy again between
them. She gave him both hands, and he kissed
her ; it was the kiss of a glad lover — not the per-
functory, matrimonial kiss.

As .they sat down to breakfast, both of them
could hardly help laughing ; they were so pleased
at nothing. They refrained, however, owing
to the notion — for which something might have
been said — that such conduct would be slightly
idiotic. Mervyn removed a cover :

106 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

"That," he said, "is routine — sheer routine."

" No, no," said Joyce, " it's only poached eggs
— nothing worse, I assure you."

" I meant the number, Joyce. Don't you see
— the mystic number three? Anna Martha has
absolutely no variableness, and she won't allow
for it in other people. She knows that I gen-
erally eat two and you generally eat one. So
she expects us always to do that, and always
sends os just exactly three. She's cast a sort
of spell over me, and I find myself eating two
eggs when I only want one, simply to satisfy
the passion for regularity in Anna Martha. I'm
not going to stand it any longer. To-day I will
only eat one and you shall eat two ; and that
will break Anna Martha's clockwork heart."

"But I don't see how she's to know, unless
you tell her, which of us had two."

" That's true, Joyce, horribly true, and I cer-
tainly daren't tell her. Well, I must get out of
the groove, somehow. I might do it by not
eating any at all, only I happen to be distinctly
hungry," he added, as he helped himself.

They did not always talk such utter nonsense
as this ; for both Joyce and Mervyn had as much
intellect as the average man — and perhaps
keener appreciation. But this morning they
were talking nonsense with a set purpose ; and
yet neither of them had any notion that they
were talking with a set purpose at all. This

THE MAGIC MORNING 107

happens rather more frequently than is generally
supposed. Underneath the words of both of
them lay — quite unconsciously — this thought:
" We must not let our minds dwell for a moment
on yesterday ; what took place then was all a
mistake, and too horrible to think about; we
must forget it, and show that we have forgotten
it by being cheerful. "

" I've got a new dress on to-day," said Joyce,
presently. " Do you like it? "

"Yes; I had been adoring in silence. It
really is a lovable sort of a clothing." He
paused for a second. " Talking of new things, "
he added, "when I was going down to the
river this morning, I stopped for a second to
look at you, and, really, there was something —
something indescribable — in your face that I
had never seen there before. "

Joyce's gray eyes opened a little wider.
"How? What do you mean? How did I
look? "

"Different."

" Improved — better? "

"Happier — a saintly sort of happiness."

" And it's not so easy to look happy either,
with your eyes shut. I — I had the loveliest
dream. Of course I have forgotten what it
was all about; I always forget dreams. But
perhaps I was just dreaming it when you looked
at me."

108 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

" Perhaps. I'm afraid it's one of the things
we aren't going to know for certain."

"Did you " Joyce paused irresolutely.

" No, nothing," she added. " Have some more
strawberries? "

Mervyn laughed a little. "Yes, I did," he
said. " I hope it didn't wake you. I tried not
to wake you."

"No, it didn't wake me. I'm glad. How
on earth did you know what I was going to ask
you? I only said two words of it."

"Your eyes said the rest."

" Joyce, " he added presently, rising from the
table, "do you think we are going to church
this morning? "

Joyce also rose. She walked to the window
and looked out. " I feel quite sure that we are
going to church this evening ; but this morning
is too fine, and it would be too hot in church.
I think we will go out into the open air and sit
down somewhere. You shall take a book with
you, and the cooler of the two — whichever it
may be — shall read to the hotter."

" Which way shall we go? " asked Mervyn, as
shortly afterward they passed through the gar-
den gate out on to the high-road.

" Up on to the hills. It will suit a queer kind
of exaltation that I'm feeling this morning.
I suppose it is because it is such glorious
weather."

THE MAGIC MORNING 109

" Yes ; it's a magic morning. "

"Magic! That's just the word for it. It
changes everything; quite common things do
not seem common any longer. Look at that
golden broom there with the light on it, just on
the edge of the heath. It's the ordinariest
golden broom, but it's simply beautiful, and I
love it — I could kiss it."

"Do," said Mervyn. "I'm not going to be
jealous of a wretched vegetable ; and there's no
one coming. Do, by all means."

" It wouldn't be a very sane sort of thing to
do, I own; but then that's where the magic
comes in. It's all the weather; now yester-
day "

She stopped short. She had only been intend-
ing to speak of yesterday's weather, but yester-
day did not stand speaking about, or even
thinking about, just yet.

They went up the hill-side. The bracken
was waist-high — a sea of pale green rippling to
the slightest wind. Below its graceful stems
lay the old bracken, brown and faded. On the
fine sand of the pathway a thousand tiny insects
hurried to and fro. Joyce had gathered two or
three wild white roses from a hedge that they
had passed, and was fastening them affection-
ately in her dress. In the distance they could
hear the church bells just beginning; they
sounded more sweetly and more musically than

110 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

when one heard them in the village street; in-
deed, they suggested distance, far-awayness,
remoteness ; they awoke in Joyce a feeling of
sad longing, the "desiderium" of the Latins,
the " 7ro0o9 " of the Greeks — a feeling for which a
more prosaic nation has no one exact word. For
a time the two walked on in silence ; then they
sat down in the shadow ; a fallen tree seemed to
have fallen on purpose for their convenience.
And because Joyce was a little tired with her
walk, it was Mervyn who read ; his voice was
low and monotonous. Perhaps he was almost
too careful not to be declamatory ; but his read-
ing was intelligent. It was rather a sad story
that he was reading ; these were the last words
of it:

" Not only was his character entirely cleared.
It was thought that he had undergone very
much, and had done so for a very noble motive.
He was admired — indeed, almost worshipped;
and his book brought him fresh honor ; it was
praised everywhere and bought everywhere;
almost every post brought him letters from peo-
ple of whom he had never heard before, telling
him of the pleasure or the consolation that they
had found in his work. He had won reputation
and the love of many. He had wealth now,
and the life of ease and luxury was possible to
him. That was why in all the city there was
not one as unhappy as he,"

THE MAGIC MORNING 111

There was, perhaps, some truth in this. The
man in the story had missed the one thing that
he wanted most; and the gain of the other
things that he had always wanted so much less
was only another bitterness to him. There was
some truth in it, because after all we are the
merest children, and if we cannot have just what
we want, we are very much inclined to say that
we will not play, and to sulk in a corner.

Joyce had heard the story before, and she
liked it at times. In more critical moments
she could see that it was wanting in brightness
and strenuity. The author of it was very
young, and had not learned that you must have
a light to see the darkness by. But the story
fitted her present mood ; it seemed to suit their
height above the village and their sense of dis-
tance. It is hard to sympathize with the sor-
rows to which one is nearest. Yet it was not a
morning on which Joyce could stay long in the
air of sorrowful sentimentality; her thoughts
strayed from the sad story to other and happier
things. Mervyn had put the book down and
was stretched at her feet ; he was rolling a
cigarette and taking a lazy man's trouble about
it ; he lit it and smoked for some time in silence.
All manner of quaint little summer sounds were
going on around them — chirp and twitter, nutter
of wings, buzzing of insects, rustle of branches.

Presently he happened to look up into his

112 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

wife's face. "Joyce," he said, "can you tell
me what you were thinking about then?"

She hesitated a second, and then looked away
from him. " No, dear, I don't think I can tell
you. Why?"

" Because you had that look again — the new
look — that you had when I kissed you in your
sleep this morning."

"This morning — this magic morning," she
echoed softly. " No, it's not only the weather;
I don't know what it is."

They walked home, back to the white cottage,
in silence. On Sunday they dined in the mid-
dle of the day because it suited Anna Martha
better ; in merely material matters they generally
arranged themselves as might suit Anna Mar-
tha best. The afternoon passed drowsily away ;
Joyce read books in a hammock that was
stretched between two trees in the garden at
the back of the house ; Mervyn smoked many
cigarettes and went for a short walk. And in
the evening they went to church ; it was not an
evening on which either of them was in a mood
to criticise very severely. The curate meant to
be quite right ; so did the choir of village boys ;
so did the organ, a very poor instrument. They
all meant to be quite right, and the rest did not
seem to matter very much.

Later in the evening Joyce played the piano
for Mervyn, and he sat and watched her.

THE MAGIC MORNING 113

She looked very sweet and delicate in the can-
dle-light. She was playing from memory, and
her thoughtful eyes were half closed. Her
hands, moving over the keys, were small and
white and beautiful. Outside, beyond the
trees, one could see the crescent moon in a sky
that was still thinking about the daylight that
had gone but an hour ago. The music that she
had been playing had suited well the fall of
night, and the recollection of worship, and all
gentle thoughts. She paused a moment, and
then began to play the second movement of
Beethoven's E-minor Sonata, the converse of the
lovers. He waited until she had finished, and
then he spoke :

"Joyce, dearest, I don't know how it hap-
pened, but yesterday I did not love you. It
won't ever happen again. I love you now."

Joyce looked down at her hands, resting on
the keys. There were tears in her eyes. "I
knew," she said, almost in a whisper, "and I
did not love you then."

"And now?"

"Very — very much." She put out the can-
dles at the piano, and in a moment she was
close to him in the dusk, with her head upon
his shoulder. "Mervyn, my dear husband,"
she said, "I — I've got something to tell you."
8

MY LADY'S LILIES

"THEY'RE full of graciousness," you said
Of lilies in your garden growing.

" And you, " I answered, " you are like
The fairest lily blowing."

To you the simile was naught;

It was too trite — it did not strike you.
But weren't the lilies mad with joy

At hearing they were like you !

VII
"JADIS"

OVER the flat fen country there were white
mists rising. It was already growing dusk, but
it was not going to be very dark this summer
night. The weeds had been cut, and drifted
down stream in thick masses. A thin middle-
aged man stood by the lock-gates, watching an
approaching boat. He was dressed in country
clothes, but he had not the air of a country-
man ; he was pale and had a look of experience.
Save for the regular sound of the sculls, every-
thing was quite still. Save for the man at the
lock-gates and the solitary occupant of the boat,
there was no one in sight. It was a wide, flat,
desolate scene.

The boat was rather a heavy tub, and the
man who was sculling was tired and out of
temper. As a rule he was thought to be a dis-
tinctly brilliant and genial young man ; but he
wanted to get on to Nunnisham, which was
five miles beyond the lock, that night, and he
had been considerably delayed by the weeds.
The gods had given him extraordinarily good

116 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

looks and many other good things, enough to
keep him genial unless, as on the present occa-
sion, circumstances tried him severely. At the
lock he drew into the bank and hailed the mid-
dle-aged man who still stood watching him.

" Hi ! what are the weeds like above the lock? "

" Very bad, sir. " The answer was given in
a serious, respectful voice.

The young man swore gently to himself. " Is
there any place near here where I could put up
for the night? "

" There is only a public-house, sir. I am the
landlord of it — my name is Hill. I could give
you a bedroom ; a little rough, perhaps, but "

"Good — a bed and some supper — capital!
That is the only bit of luck I've had to-day."
As he was speaking the young man picked up
a small knapsack which was lying in the stern
of the boat and jumped out. He made the boat
fast, and joined the landlord on the towing-path.

" It is this way. You will allow me to carry
that for you, sir."

As they walked along, the brilliant 'young
man — his name was Philip Vince — chatted
freely. He was taking a holiday up the river,
and was to have joined a friend at Nunnisham
that night and then gone on with him the day
after. He told the landlord all this, and also
surmised that Hill was not a native of the fen
country.

117

"No, sir," was the answer. "I was valet to
Sir Charles Sulmont. You have perhaps heard
of him."

Philip had never heard of him, but said that
he had.

" When Sir Charles died he left me a little
money, and I married a maid who was then in
Lady Sulmont's service. I bought this house
with a little assistance from her ladyship, and
settled here. I was very young then, and I have
been here eighteen years."

Philip gathered from further talk as they
went along that Mrs. Hill was dead, and that
she had left one child, Jeanne, a girl of seven-
teen, who lived with her father. When they
reached the inn, Hill showed Philip a bedroom
— a large, comfortable room, and began to make
some apology about supper. They very rarely
had any one staying in the house, and there
was nothing but Here Philip interrupted :

" You would be doing me a kindness if you
would let me have supper with you and your
daughter. I hate solitude. I mean, if your —
if Miss Hill wouldn't object."

" If you really wish it, sir, I should be very
pleased; so also, I am sure, would Jeanne."
Hill was a born valet ; he had the manner ; if
he had lived out of service for a hundred years,
he would have been a valet still. When Hill
left him, Philip looked round the room and

118 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

congratulated himself. Everything was very
neat and clean. The landlord was a capital
fellow — a little solemn, perhaps, but still a capi-
tal fellow. This was far above the accommoda-
tion which he had expected.

Just then a light footfall came up the stairs,
and Philip caught a snatch of a French song.
The song stopped short just before the footfall
passed his door. Philip conjectured that this
must be the daughter, and that it had been a
French maid that Hill had married ; hence the
name Jeanne and that snatch of song. Also
that the daughter had been warned of his ar-
rival, and had gone to put on her prettiest
dress. All of these conjectures were quite cor-
rect. And yet when Jeanne entered the sitting-
room a few minutes afterward and saw Philip
for the first time, she was so startled that she
showed it slightly. Philip was also a little sur-
prised, for a different reason, and did not show
it at all. He had thought of the possibility
that Jeanne might be pretty; and she was a
beauty — a brunette, childlike in many ways,
but with a woman's eyes. Her voice was
good, and her first few words showed that she
had had some education.

It took her about ten minutes to get from de-
cided shyness to complete confidence. Philip
was feeling far too good-tempered to let any one
be shy with him ; he made Hill and his daugh-

119

ter talk, and he talked freely himself. He liked
the simplicity of everything about him ; he had
grown tired of formalities in London. He liked
cold beef and salad, for he was very hungry, and
— yes, above all, he liked Jeanne. What on
earth were that face and that manner doing in
a riverside inn ? She was perfect ; she did not
apologize too much, did not get flurried, did
not have red hands, spoke correctly, laughed
charmingly — in a word, was bewitching.
Really, he was glad that he had been prevented
from going on to Nunnisham. Toward the end
of supper, he discovered that she was wearing
a white dress with forget-me-nots in it.

The table was cleared by a native servant, who
seemed all red cheeks and new boots. Hill
went off to superintend the business of the inn.
Philip was left alone with Jeanne. She told
him to smoke, and he was obedient; he also
made her tell him other things.

Yes, she had been to school at Nunnisham —
rather too good a school for her, she was afraid ;
but her mother had wished it. Her mother
had taught her French and a little music.
Music and drawing were the best things, she
thought; but she liked some books. She owned
that it was lonely, sometimes, at the inn. " I
am glad you came," she confessed frankly.

"Jeanne," said Philip, "I heard you hum-
ming a line or two of * Jadis' before supper,

120 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

didn't I? I wish you would sing it to me."
She agreed at once, crossing the room to a little
cottage piano — rather a worn-out instrument,
but still a piano. The melody — plaintive,
gentle, childish — of Jeanne's sweet voice, and
the sadness of the words, with their quaint, pen-
sive refrain, did not miss their effect.

" Je n'attends plus rien ici-bas ;
Bonheur perdu ne revient pas,
Et mon coeur ne demande au ciel
Qu'un repos eternel. "

He thanked her; he had liked that very
much. "Why," he added, "were you startled
when you saw me? "

" Because you are a dream come true. I saw
your face in a dream last night — as clearly as I
see you now. All this time I have been feeling
as if I had known you before."

" Really ? " he said. He had not quite believed
it. " How many things come true ! One says
things about the shortness of time or the cer-
tainty of death so often that they lose all mean-
ing ; then when one grows old or lies dying, the
platitudes get to have terrible force — they come
true."

She was struck by that; she kept her eyes
fixed on his, and he went on talking to her. He
did not, as the time wore on, always mean
quite so much as he said ; and she meant much

121

more than she said. That is a common differ-
ence between a man and a woman on such occa-
sions. It seemed to her that now for the first
time she really lived.

After Jeanne had said good-night, Philip
had some chat with her father about her.

" I expect that she will be engaged very soon,
sir," he said; "a young man called Banks —
William Banks — is anxious, and has spoken to
me ; and she likes him. "

"Now, I wonder," thought Philip to himself
as he went upstairs, " why she never even hinted
that to me. 'M — yes, I see."

Next morning after breakfast he went away,
taking with him a few forget-me-nots, a pleasant
memory, and just the faintest possible feeling
of remorse. They all faded.

Jeanne had seemed so quiet and depressed of
late that her father, in order to cheer her up,
had invited Mr. William Banks to spend the
evening.

Mr. Banks was a small shopkeeper in Nun-
nisham, and considered to be no mean wag by
those who knew him. Yet he felt unable to
cheer her up. " Supposing we had a bit of a
toon, Jenny," he suggested at last. She was
quite docile. She played one thing after an-
other. Suddenly she began " Jadis."

"I don't understand French myself," Mr.

122 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Banks remarked, "but the words of a song
don't matter." She had never thought much
about the words herself before. But now?

"Depuis qu'il a trahi sa foi
Rien n'a plus de charme pour moi."

Her voica faltered a little, but she sang on to
the end of the verse :

" Et mon coeur ne demande au ciel
Qu'un repos eternel."

Yes, the song had " come true." Just there she
gave way and began to cry a little.

A week afterward Mr. Banks announced that
his attentions to Miss Hill were at an end.

THE BIRD CAGE

THERE is a cage of many a bird

Hung up in space by Natural Law ;
Doves coo, the peacock is absurd,

Swans .sing and die, and black rooks caw ;
The fighting cock is killed or wins,

Peewits peewit, and pouters pout ;
The ostrich feeds on sardine tins,

And they can none of them get out.
That's what the noise is all about ;

They want to, but they can't get out.

The cage has many thousand bars ;

Each bar's a scientific fact ;
Through these they watch the shooting stars,

And get emotion from the act.
But one owl says the stars aren't there,

But in the eyes that watch them fall ;
" And eyes, however fine a pair,

Don't as a fact exist at all.
These bars that make our prison wall

Are but phenomena — that's all."

124 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

That doesn't stop them, not a bit;

The skylark sings, and beats his breast
Against a bar, and stunned by it,

Drops down to die and to protest.
As panting in the cage he lies,

The glory of a shooting star
Drops splendor down the dazzled skies,

Where dreams and their cloud-chambers are.
" And oh," he cries, "to fly so far

Where dreams and bright star-glories are ! "

"Tu-whit! the little brute is dead;

That will be one star-gazer less. "
These are the words the great owl said ;

The others cry, "Oh, yes! oh, yes!"
But one sweet- voiced and golden brown

Croons o'er the lark a plaintive song :
" Though the claws are crossed and the wings
droop down,

And the breast is still, it is not for long.
His voice was sweet and his wings were strong,

Surely he will awake ere long."

"Quite right," the duck quacks, "there are
germs

Of life when life seems wholly gone.
The lark will do to feed the worms,

And worms are good to feed upon."
" That's splendid ! " all the owls reply,

"Our life from death its substance draws;
A skylark should be glad to die,

THE BIRD CAGE 125

And make us fat by Natural Laws.
You and the rooks with their First Caws,
Are getting on in Natural Laws."

Ages are past, the cage is there,

But now to suffocation packed,
The dying cry for light and air,

With quavering notes that thirst has cracked.
The living beat against the bars,

Bedewed with tears, begrimed with jest,
In mad desire to join the stars,

To fly away and be at rest.
The down falls from their wounded breast;

They die — and no one knows the rest.

VIII
THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND

THERE was a dog once that got to be utterly
sick of conventionality. It lived in a great
house, had proper exercise, proper food, a prop-
er control over its temper, and everything quite
proper. And after a time things got so bad that
it made its complaint to the butler, who had
condescended to take it out with him a short
way. And this is what the dog said to the
butler :

" O beautiful butler, I am a-weary, a- weary !
Why should I bark whenever I hear the front-
door beh1 ring, and have it imputed unto me for
intelligence? For I know in my heart that the
visitors at this house are respectable visitors.
I know that they will not steal the spoons, or
murder my master and mistress, or growl at
you, O beautiful butler. Why then should I
bark at them and frighten them? It is such a
paltry farce. Why should I pretend to be de-
voted to my master and mistress? I like them
well enough ; but they are quite ordinary peo-
ple, and I am most emphatically not devoted to

THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 127

them. Yet I let them believe it. My master
thinks that when he dies I shall fetch a Sir-Ed-
win-Landseerish artist, to show my instinct,
and then die oleographically on his tombstone to
show my fidelity. Bah! Why should I lie
down when I am told, and get up when I am
told, and always be sent off to bed at the same
time? Why should I pretend to be surprised
and piggishly pleased, whenever I have any
food given me? I tell you that I'm the slave
of conventionality, and I hate it. Let us be
natural ! For the love of bones let us be natural !
Liberty, 0 beautiful butler, and Fraternity, and
Equality!"

The dog stopped, gasping. To the butler it
was only a noise that the dog was making, an
unintelligible noise. For the butler could not
understand doggish; moreover, on that morn-
ing he had been rendered unhappy by circum-
stances, and he was in no mood to tolerate the
yelping of a fox-terrier.

" Look here, master Fido," he said severely.

"Sickly, sentimental name it is, too," inter-
rupted the dog.

"Look here, master Fido," the butler re-
sumed, more severely. "If you can't close
your head, I shall just take you back again.
That's what I shall do with you. Here am I.
I gets my eyes cursed by master Frederick for
what's not my fault nor anybody else's fault

128 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

except his own. I expect that — and I put up
with it. And very likely I'm a worm, a trodden
worm, being treated as such. But I am not
going to be yelped at by no fox-terriers. Human
nature draws the line somewhere."

"A stupid man, although beautiful," the dog
thought to himself, as he silently took his place
at the butler's heels. And when he got home
he went straight to his bed, and dreamed of a
free artistic life, full of love-stories.

On the following day a large tom-cat was
brought to the house. It had come from a
beautiful home for lost culture in South Ken-
sington. Fido discovered that it was expected
that he would fight with the cat ; so he at once
made friends with it to show his originality,
and he explained to it how this kind of life hurt
him, and how hungry his soul was. Now the
cat was very high-toned and as full of other
people's phrases as it could stick.

" Ah, yes ! " it murmured with a tired mew.
"You revolt. It is so very fin de siecle to re-
volt. And you would live? I do not see the
necessity; that goes without saying, since I
am a quietist. It is almost more fin de siecle
to be a quietist, you know. You don't know?
Ah, how right of you! Never know. Only
imagine — dream. There are rose-leaves in the
world, and old silver and beautiful women, and
wind-songs and sea- songs. Go and look for

THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 129

them. Go out into the cool night, when it
is dark, and you can see nothing, and look
for them. You're drinking my milk, you

pig."

The last remark, which — as compared with
the rest — was plain, was unfortunately also
true. Fido had done it from absence of mind,
and he was sore ashamed. But he liked the
way the cat talked ; it did seem so very high.
So that night he made unto himself an oppor-
tunity, and got away from the great house.
And first of all he careered into Piccadilly.
There he sat down in the middle of the road,
scratched his head with his hind-foot, and said,
" 0 my adventurous soul ! "

At that moment a passing cah nearly ran
over Fido, and the driver flicked him with his
whip. It was painful.

"This is life," said Fido to himself, "poig-
nant and intense, it is true, but still quite free
from conventionality. I shall come to the
sweetness and brightness of it presently. But —
lovely Helen ! — how that whip did hurt ! "

He was a moderately intelligent dog, and he
saw that these crowded thoroughfares were irk-
some to a dog that wanted to be soulful and not
to take the trouble to see where it was going.
The desert — the sandy, lonely, wind-swept
desert — would do him far better. So he stopped
a large St. Bernard, which was taking its mas-
9

130 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

ter out, and inquired which was the way to the
nearest desert.

"Go home, you flighty-headed young idiot,"
said the St. Bernard sternly.

Fido walked on, determined to take no notice
of this insult ; but his angry soul bubbled and
boiled within him, and called for vengeance
until he could stand it no longer. "I must
punish that dog," he said to himself; "I '11 go
back and bark at his tail, and then run away.
He's chained to a man, so he won't be able to
run after me."

So he went back and barked most nobly;
unfortunately he barked at the wrong dog, who
was not chained, and when he ran away the
wrong dog ran after him, being wishful to eat
a portion of him. And for a long time Fido
ran on, going westward, and then southwest-
ward, skirting passionate Brompton, and paus-
ing at last in the North End Koad. But his
pursuer had run into a lamp-post that stood in
the parts about Knightsbridge, and so had gone
no further, being sorry for himself.

In the North End Road Saturday night is
market-night, and there is such cheapness in
that road as can only be found in one other part
of great London. It was Saturday night when
Fido got there, and the street was crowded.
The flare of the lights on the barrows, the
hoarse cries of the salesmen, the hurry of every-

THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 131

body, and the excessive intoxication of the
three people nearest him, flurried Fido. He
found, however, something which was very like
a small desert under a barrow where peppermint
rock was being sold at a price which, the pro-
prietor explained, barely paid for the paper in
which it was wrapped. At the next stall was
a very scientific-looking old gentleman in a
dressing-gown, a gray beard, and a college cap.
Fido sat in his miniature desert and listened
to the old gentleman, who was addressing the
crowd :

" It was my aim, therefore, bein' a philosopher
as well as a scientist, to go a little further than
this Edising what discovered electricity. The
question which I arst myself, and which I arsks
you to-night, was simply this — why should I
die? Why should I not use some modification
of this electricity, combinin' it with other
things, to restore my wasted vitality and pro-
long my life? For this purpose I studied for
several years in three forrun capitals, and the
results is the little machine you see before you.
You grasps the two 'andles in your two 'ands,
and say when the shock's as strong as you care
to 'ave it. ' Appiness and 'ealth for one penny !
' Appiness and 'ealth by the newly invented life-
improver for one penny a shock. After to-night
the price will be one guinea a shock, so now's
your chance,"

132 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

"This is better," Fido thought to himself.
" We never had any brilliant theories and new
discoveries in that horrible abode of conven-
tionality where they made me do trust-and-
paid-for."

At this moment the dog noticed a butcher's
shop on the other side of the pavement. The
butcher himself stood at one side of it, with the
agony of a great soul written on his fat face,
speaking to the crowd with the earnestness and
conviction of a dying man to dying men :

" (Prestissimo) Buy, buy, buy ! (Adagio con
molto expressione) Lyedy, gentle lyedy, 'ere's
a Sunday dinner for yer. Make your own
price, lyedy, and we cuts to suit yer. (Batten-
tando) Gentle lyedy, to-morrer's Sunday."

" This is Fraternity and Equality," thought
Fido. And then another of those curious fits of
absence of mind came over him, and he came
out from under the barrow, and went over to the
butcher's shop; he made a small selection, and
walked away with the selection in his mouth.
But the butcher saw him, and his voice rose
like the wail of a lost spirit: "Blanks and
initialled hyphens! kick that dorg, some of
yer!"

And then it seemed to Fido that earthquakes,
explosions, volcanoes, and empty meat tins were
all happening at once, and that in the middle of
them he himself was running in three different

THE DOG THAT GOT POUND 133

directions simultaneously. When he collected
his thoughts again he was limping along in
great pain on the darker side of the Fulham
Road, having dropped the selection into the
mud, and feeling like to die. He paused on
Putney Bridge to make a moral reflection, ad-
dressed to no one in particular: "When you
forsake the paths of conventionality keep your
eye upon your fleshy appetites. Never forget
that you were not made wholly spiritual. "

He crawled with infinite difficulty up Putney
Hill. It had grown very late now, and there
was no one about. He was cut, and bruised,
and broken, plastered with mud and blood.
When a dog means to do a pathetic thing, it
likes to do it in private. So Fido crept away
to the right on to Putney Common, and there
he hid himself under a bush, panting, with his
tongue out. He prayed in faltering doggish
that it might occur to a stream of clear, cool
water to come past him, because he was too tired
to go in search of it. In the early hours he
heard a kind of singing in his ears ; and at first
his wandering mind thought that this must be
his mistress practising her scales in the room
overhead; and then he remembered that there
was no room overhead, nothing but darkness,
and then again it might possibly be the sound
of the cool stream coming toward him. He
waited a little longer, but the stream did not

134 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

come ; there was only one thing left to do, and
he did it — in a simple and unaffected manner.

The laboring man noticed the body, as he
took his short cut across the common. " Bill,"
he said to his mate, " 'ere's a dead dorg, with
a silver collar to 'im; 'e must 'ave got lorst."

As a matter of fact he had just got found,
and his soul was chasing ghost-rats in the happy
hunting-grounds. " Fair doos with the collar,"
remarked Bill.

THE BAT AND THE DEVIL

I

THE bat he hung on the yew-tree bough,
As the devil came over the high hill brow.
He opened the gate of the grim churchyard,
And cursed at the hinges that went so hard.
He sat him down 'neath the same yew-tree
And long at the poor little bat glared he:
" It is but a leaf that is hanging there,
Dead, but moved by the strong sweet air.
Plants and trees are nothing to me,
And nothing to Him who made them be.
They have one life and no more than that " —

Poor old Bat!

II

The bat dropped down from the yew-tree spray,
And crawled on the devil in a grewsome way.
A woman's skin would have leaped with fear
At the cold claws touching there and here ;
But the devil did naught but chuckle and sing :
" It's a creeping thing ! It's a creeping thing !
By the Serpent of Eden, first of the line,
All that creeps on the earth is mine.

136 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

This is no leaf, but a soul to crawl
In my inner chamber along the wall,
With the poison-snake and the snail of slime
In hell's dark place that knows not time,
For my sisters to mock and be merry at ' ' —

Poor old Bat !

Ill

But the grim churchyard grew dusk and dark,
And stars 'gan twinkling, spark by spark ;
And out and away on the air of night
Sailed the bat with a noiseless flight,
With scarce a whirr of its nervous wing,
As it wheeled around in a widening ring ;
But a curse came into the devil's eyes,
And his mouth was red with blasphemies :
" By the angels that float in the heavenly air,
By the holy sheen of the wings they wear —
And damned be they f orevermore !
All that flies in the air will soar
Upward to Him, and away from me ! "

And the lightning blasted the grim yew-tree,
And the thunder roared, and the rain made foam
On the path, as the devil got him home —
Home by the broad road and the level —

Poor old Devil !

IX

TWO POETS

"Now, look here, Hubert, do just let me
read you the finest part."

There was something splendid in the vanity
of this large, venerable man. He was only
middle-aged, but he looked venerable. He sat
well back in his easy-chair, full of complacency
and dinner. His fat, white, ringed fingers
toyed delicately with his liqueur-glass. His
eyes, as he spoke, glanced lovingly toward an
awful portfolio — a portfolio as bulgy as its
owner — which rested on a writing-table in a
far corner. He was so childish and eager that
Hubert felt that it was impossible to be angry
with this fatuous poet, although it would be
still more impossible to listen to his verses.
Hubert was five years younger than the vener-
able Archibald, and looked ten years younger.
He had the broad, low brow and the luminous
eyes that see the humor of things. They had
been friends at college, and college friendships
stick.

They only resembled one another in the fact

138 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

that they both wrote verses. Archibald was a
fairly rich man, and was about to publish his
own works at his own expense in dainty vellum
binding. Hubert, although not poor, was
much poorer, and quite unpublished. Archi-
bald had never suffered a strong passion, had
no strange experiences, and no close ties of af-
fection; for he had many acquaintances and
no near relations. In Archibald's affections,
Hubert had told him more than once, Archi-
bald himself and his own verses came first,
sweet champagne and oily liquors second,
chocolate bon-bons third, and the rest nowhere.
At which Archibald would smile a fat smile,
and say that he was quite prepared to own his
devotion to his art. He was so perfectly well
satisfied with himself that the laughter or jeers
of his friend never affected him, and would not
have affected him even if they had not been —
as they were — always uttered good-humoredly.
Hubert had been less fortunate than Archibald.
He was more sensitive and less sensible. He
was susceptible, and had been the fool of more
than one woman. At this time he was mar-
ried, but separated from his wife. He was re-
served on such points, and Archibald never
knew that his friend was, or ever had been,
married. Hubert was always suffering the re-
morse that he was always causing himself ; and
yet his frailties were lovable, and he had never

TWO POETS 139

lost his sweet temper and his geniality. His
experiences and sorrows had gone straight
through his heart out into his verse. In verse
he had found much consolation, but no money.
It was not poverty that caused either of the
two to write. Vanity compelled Archibald;
the desire for comfort moved Hubert.

Yet with all their differences they remained
very good friends. They often dined together,
as they had been dining now, in Archibald's
chambers. On rare occasions Hubert would
allow Archibald to have recourse to the awful
portfolio; then Archibald was happy. Hubert
never read his own poetry aloud, and his friend
only knew that he had written some verses for
which he had not been able to find a pub-
lisher.

"Now, my dear fellow," said Archibald, re-
peating his request, "I value your opinion.
The part I want to read you is the first twenty
lines of * The Darkness of Eros.' After that,
if you don't want to hear any more, I promise
to stop. I read those twenty lines to Smith -
son, and he asked me to go on ; and you know
Smithson's not the man to be easily pleased."
Archibald rose and waddled toward the port-
folio like a frightened hen getting home.

"All nonsense, old man," said Hubert;
"you'd had Smithson to dinner."

"But that's nothing to do with it," replied

140 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

Archibald, fumbling with a bundle of proofs
which he had selected from the portfolio.

"Well, you know, Smithson's mostly used
to dining at restaurants, and he can't quite un-
derstand a free feed. I can. I like it. But
Smithson always has an idea that he's got to
pay for his dinner somehow. When he dines
with one, he alwaj's admires the pictures and
furniture. Of course, he can't admire your
Landseers; because, although Smithson's vul-
gar, he's not so hopeless as all that. But he
praises your poetry instead."

Archibald smoothed out one long slip on his
plump knee. " Now it's just precisely because
by a remark like that you show a certain
amount" of insight that Smithson doesn't pos-
sess that I want you to — er — now then."

And before Hubert could stop him he had
read the first line :

"'Shall we sing of the sea-foam that bore thee, the
Mother of Love?'"

" Next line ends in 'dove/ " remarked Hubert
waywardly.

"It does not," said Archibald emphatically.
"It ends in 'above.' And you might have
had 'grove' or 'shove,' or heaps of things.
You spoil it, you know, by talking like that."

"No, my dear fellow," said Hubert; "it's
Smithson who really spoils you. Look here.

TWO POETS 141

When you read your verses I want to laugh,
and that's not right. I'll tell you what I'll do.
I'll do something I never did for you before.
I'll take that proof home and read it, and give
you my detailed opinion of it."

"You will?" said Archibald, and his eyes
brightened as he handed him the proof. " I'm
not sure that it would not be better for me to
read it ; but, on my word, it's something that you
want to read it yourself when you've only heard
one line." For it was Archibald's conviction
that Hubert must have been attracted by that
line to make the proposal. "And you'll give
me your opinion of it," he continued, "your
candid opinion — just what you think, you
know?"

"I will," said Hubert; "but you will publish
it just the same, whatever my opinion is."

"I own that," replied Archibald blandly:
"because I have a confidence in that work
which I am persuaded is just. "

"And talking of candid opinions," Hubert
went on, with the plain speaking of a very old
friend, "this particular mixture of citron and
treacle is rather more nasty than I care for.
I know it's your taste, but "

Archibald smiled and touched the bell.
Then they fell to talking of the wickedness of
wine merchants and publishers and of the
beauty of old college-days, until the small

142 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

hours. Hubert was thinking as his cab took
him back to his own chambers. He was think-
ing of a certain ship of his which had recently
come in and which he had long before given
up. It would enable him, if he liked, to do
precisely what Archibald was doing — to publish
his own verses at his own expense.

On the table in his chambers he found a let-
ter waiting for him, addressed to him in a fa-
miliar feminine hand. It was written on thick,
rough-edged paper, and bore a great gilt mon-
ogram. She was always adopting fashions, he
knew, but they took time in reaching her.
There were three sheets, all crossed; and one
of them was smeared with cigarette ashes.
He glanced through them impatiently and
flung them on the fire. Then he took out his
check-book, wrote a check, and put it in an en-
velope, which he stamped and addressed.

Then he went to bed with the pleasant con-
sciousness that the ship which had come in had
now gone out again ; and that the poems would
have to wait.

Yet they ultimately found a publisher.

Archibald Somers and Hubert Ray both died
in the same year. Sixty years afterward a
critical work appeared on Archibald Somers.
As this critical work expressed what were cer-
tainly the general sentiments of the time, some

TWO POETS 143

of it may be quoted. Besides, it is a little curi-
ous:

"It is to be regretted that Hubert Ray had not the
humility to undertake the work of Boswell for John-
son ; although he was undoubtedly less than Boswell,
even as Somers was undoubtedly greater than Johnson.
Had he done so, we might have had a clearer picture
of the personality of the finest English poet since Mil-
ton. As it is, Archibald Somers is an indistinct fig-
ure ; a figure which we love and reverence, but of
which we would fain know more. Hubert Ray was
too much taken up with his own filthy intrigues, his
own morbid rhymes and spiteful lampoons ; he was too
much blinded by conceit to see the greatness of his
intimate friend. It is a satire on their times that Hu-
bert Ray should have found a publisher foolish enough
to produce his works for nothing, while Archibald
Somers positively had to pay to give the world a work
which it now knows to be priceless. It is true that
subsequently, even in their life-time, the pre-emi-
nence of Somers was acknowledged ; but if we may
judge the man from the delicacy of his writing, his
modesty would be astounded if he knew — alas, he can
never know ! — the position which he justly holds now
among the poets of this land. "

AINIGMATA

I WANTED the sweep of the wild wet weather,

The wind's long lash and the rain's free fall,
The toss of the trees as they swayed together,

The measureless gray that was over them all ;
Whose roar speaks more than a language spoken ;

Wordless and wonderful, cry on cry —
The sob of an earth that is vexed and broken,

The answering sob of a broken sky.

What could they tell us? We see them ever —

The trees, and the sky, and the stretch of the

land;
But they give us a word of their secret never ;

They tell no story we understand.
Yet haply the ghost-like birch out yonder

Knows much in a placid and silent way ;
The rain might tell what the gray clouds ponder,

The winds repeat what the violets say.

Why weeps the rain? Do you know its sorrow?
Do you know why the wind is so sad — so
sad?

AINIGMATA 145

Have you stood in the rift 'twixt a day and a

morrow,
Seen their hands meet and their eyes grow

glad?

Is the tree's pride stung at its top's abasement?

Is the white rose more of a saint than the red?

What thinks the star as it sees through the

casement

A young girl lying, beautiful, dead?
10

WHITE NIGHTS

1— THE STORY OF UNA AND ALTERA

LILIAS, the princess whom all loved, was ill
and not able to sleep. We did not know just
at first what was the matter with her, and in-
deed the court physicians owned that they did
not understand her illness. The king, her
father, was away at a conference in a distant
island, and her two sisters, the Princesses
Rosalys and Yseult, grew very anxious. Lilias
had always been slight and delicate ; and now
every day she seemed to grow more pale and
fragile and worn. A very little thing would
be a burden to her and make her tired. Yet
she kept her beauty; it seemed even to be in-
creased, and there was a more pathetic mean-
ing in her gray eyes. Her loveliness lay in her
rare and wonderful spirituality. It was not
the common beauty of a woman; it was the
beauty that one would imagine in a saint — the
reflection in her look of the beautiful soul with-
in her.

To all around her she was as kind and gentle

WHITE NIGHTS 147

as ever, but one could see that she had lost her
interest in things. She would sit, looking out
on the sunset or listening to the far-off sound
of the sea, saying nothing. We knew that
she had some sorrow, and we would have done
much — anything — to have helped her; for she
had many lovers, and she always seemed to win,
even from quite ordinary men, the best love —
the love that desires only to give and not to
receive. But there was none who would have
dared to ask for her confidence. It was very
rarely that she spoke of herself. Most women
will chatter about their hearts to other women,
but the Princess Lilias was not like that. Her
share of the more intimate sorrows and joys
of humanity was so sacred that even sympathy
was in peril of becoming profanation.

All this should have been nothing to me, the
king's fool, the son of a scullion in the royal
household, but it happened one night that Lilias
said she would like some one to come and tell
her stories from time to time, especially on
those nights when she could not sleep. It was
then that the chief minister told me to hold my-
self in readiness; he explained to me that he
had no reason to believe I could make up stories
myself, but he knew that I was well acquainted
with the jests of all lands, and that I might,
by drawing from the stores of my memory, be
able to be amusing. I was not to tell sad sto-

148 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

ries. My audience was to consist of the three
princesses, as a rule.

I mistrusted my own powers. The Princess
Rosalys was quiet, kind, womanly, and I knew
that she would not judge my attempts too
hardly. Yseult was petulant, wayward, provo-
cante, and sometimes bitter of spirit, although
she was not able to hurt me. And it seemed
impossible to make anything good enough for
Lilias to hear; and yet I wanted to try. I was
not going to obey the minister's orders and
make my stories consist entirely of remembered
jests ; for it did not seem to me to be the best
kind of sympathy to laugh with those that weep.
Yes, I was glad that I was going to be with
Lilias; I liked to look at her; indeed, I liked
all beautiful and sorrowful things, being des-
tined to ugliness and merriment all my days.

Those days will soon — very soon — be at an
end now. For I who write these words am un-
der sentence of death, and together with this
account of the white nights of the Princess Lil-
ias, I shall be writing the last chapter of my
own story, showing how it was that I was con-
demned to die. Now, when I was first sum-
moned, it was to the great hall, and the prin-
cesses were seated near the fire, for it was early
in the summer and the nights were still chilly.
Lilias was half reclining, looking tired and
white, but with her gray eyes wide open. Ho-

WHITE NIGHTS 149

salys was seated on the ground at her feet, her
head resting on her sister's knees. But Yseult
sat a little way apart, with laughing eyes, her
fingers trembling on the strings of the harp
which she had been playing.

"We await your story, fool," said the dark-
haired Yseult.

" Will you tell us a story, Otho? " asked Ro-
salys more gently.

"A story of children," added Lilias; her
voice was more musical and softer.

" Yes, " I said, " but you must play for me a
little while, Yseult, while I think." It was the
privilege of the king's fool to be allowed abso-
lution from all etiquette. It was generally felt
that he did not matter, and I said what I would.
" Will you play for me? "

She showed her little white teeth. "Why
should I play for you, fool? Yes, I will," she
added petulantly. " What shall it be? "

" Searching music — music that goes away to
look — baffled music."

"But you are reasonable, fool. You ask a
light thing — an easy thing."

And, being wayward, she would not play as
I had asked her. She made music that laughed
and laughed; and suddenly it found out that
all was too sad to laugh about, and went sob-
bing away and hid itself. She looked at me
proudly when she had finished, knowing that

150 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

she had played well and thinking that I would
praise her. But I stood leaning against the
high mantelpiece, with my eyes on the gray
eyes of Lilias.

The silence was pleasant; pleasant too was
the dim light and the fragrance of the logs
that smouldered on the open hearth. For a
moment I said nothing, and then — standing
there — I began the story of Una and Altera.

Some people thought that Mark, the king of
Mirage, was eccentric; others considered him
to be wise ; but to most he seemed brutal. He
had a queer temper, soured, but with a streak
of tenderness in it.

He would frequently make theories on the
spur of the moment, which were not good ; he
also clung to them, as a rule, and acted upon
them, which was still worse.

One day, when he was a young man and
had not been long on the throne, he was talking
to his chief counsellor. And the chief coun-
sellor happened to say something on the subject
of education. It was enough; it started Mark.

" No looking-glasses ! " Mark said suddenly,
"and- no portraits! They are the ruin of all
education, and 'Know thyself is the worst ad-
vice that ever was given. Why am I self-con-
scious? Looking-glasses and portraits are the
reason. Why are you — you will excuse me —

WHITE NIGHTS 151

so outrageously affected? Once more — look-
ing-glasses and portraits. " For Mark was not
good-looking, but the chief counsellor had a
very fine open countenance.

The chief counsellor moved his shoulders
just a very little and made his eyebrows ex-
pressive.

"One must brush one's hair sometimes," .he
said deprecatingly, "and without a looking-
glass "

"I don't see the necessity," interrupted the
king. " Besides, with a little practice you can
do even that without a looking-glass. I always
brush my hair without a looking-glass." This
had been moderately obvious, but the chief
counsellor did not like to allude to it. " When
I am married and have a son," the king went
on, "I will not allow him even to know of the
existence of such things as looking-glasses or
portraits. He shall never see his own face un-
til his character is formed."

"Were you thinking of getting married? "
asked the chief counsellor, by way of chang-
ing the subject.

"I was."

" Might I—" the chief counsellor hesitated —
"might I ask if you have already honored
any woman with your love? "

" You might, but it has nothing to do with
it. Immortals! You don't think I would

152 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

marry any woman that I really loved. Would
you drink Lafite out of a stable-bucket? "

" No, but I should like to own enough of it to
last me my life- time."

"And marriage does not last a life-time,"
the king broke in impetuously. " Love does,
if you don't marry. Marriage, sooner or later,
at the best changes love into that nauseous
wholesome affection you have for your dog or
your father. Oh, you're an ordinary person!
You simply darent be new."

The chief counsellor might have retorted
that the king "simply daren't" be anything
else. But he did not. He sighed and with-
drew.

Shortly afterward the king acted on one of
his theories. He married a woman he did not
love in the least. He told her so. " I like you
because you're fairly pretty and good-tempered,"
he said. " I don't love you, and I never shall,
because our souls don't touch at any point.
You couldn't possibly love me, because I hap-
pen to be horrible in most ways. But business
is business. You probably would like to be a
queen, and I have the vacancy to offer. To-
day week would suit me very well. If you've
any engagement for that day don't mind say-
ing so, and I'll find somebody else."

Curiously enough, this particular woman did
love Mark — loved him very badly. It is still

WHITE NIGHTS 153

more curious, seeing that she loved him, that
she should have married him after such a pro-
posal as this. " But, " she thought, " I will never
let him see that I love him until I have made
him love me." She never did let him find
out her love for him, and, as a natural conse-
quence, he never loved her ; a little less nobility
would have made her happier. After a year
she bore him a daughter and died, and King
Mark walked up and down the long gallery out-
side the room where she was lying dead, curs-
ing his dead wife and all women, for he had
greatly desired to have a son.

He bade the women of the palace to take
charge of the child and call her Una. He gave
minute instructions about her education; she
was never to see the reflection of herself in a
mirror, or polished metal, or water ; there were
to be no pictures whatever in the rooms where
she lived. She was not to know that there
were any such things. His orders were carried
out with exactitude. People mostly had a
habit of obeying King Mark. For seven years
the king never saw his daughter: he went
away to the wars, and absolutely refused to sit
in a tent of cloth-of-gold three miles away from
the scene of action, drinking sack and being
styled Most Puissant. That kind of thing did
not amuse him ; he wanted fighting. He was
not a good swordsman, but he came out safely

154 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

from all his battles. " You have brought back
your life and your honor," said the chief coun-
sellor. "And I do not want either," answered
King Mark. "I only want one thing, and I
shall never have it."

One day he suddenly entered that wing of
the house where his daughter Una lived. He
was shown the room where she was ; he opened
the door and entered. She had no dolls, be-
cause they were considered to be contrary to the
spirit of the king's regulations. She was read-
ing in a big illuminated missal, for she had no
companions and no games, and had been all
her time learning things. The illuminations
had been very carefully selected. There was
no butterfly, nor bird, nor flower depicted there-
in. The king sat down with his elbows on
his knees and his chin in his hands, looking
at her. She was very beautiful; there was
sunlight in her hair ; there was sunlight in her
eyes ; her smile was sunlight. As soon as she
saw the king she put the missal aside, and
without the least shyness or embarrassment
came toward him. She took both his hands in
her own and kissed him. " You are my dear-
est Mark," she said, "and I have never seen
you before. They have told me of you. You
have been away fighting. That is grand. The
more you fight the more I will love you."

King Mark was enraptured. He was espe-

WHITE NIGHTS 155

cially pleased that Una called him by his name
and not by the commonplace style of the com-
monplace relationship. He stayed a long time
with her, and found her most bright and affec-
tionate and free from self-consciousness. He
told her stories and she told him stories in re-
turn, using free dramatic gestures. "Now I
must go, Una, " he said at last. " Is there any-
thing I can do for you — anything you want? "

"You, you and your stories," she answered.
"You tell them as if you hated people and
wanted to fight them, and it's grand."

So the king went away madly exalted. In
the corridor he met the grave chief counsellor.

" Counsellor, " he cried joyously, " is there
anything in the world that you want? "

"The Order of the Innermost has not yet
been conferred upon me." This had always
been a sore point with the chief counsellor.

"You shall have it," shouted the king, and
passed on. He next met Una's governess.
" Una's governess, tell me — is there anything
in the world that you want? " he asked.

"Nothing, O king — nothing for myself.
But, oh, that poor Una ! That poor child ! " and
she burst into tears.

" Come with me and explain yourself, " said
the king. And he took her to the room where
he never did any work, and which was conse-
quently called his study. There the governess

156 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

explained. Una was so beautiful and had no
chance of knowing her own beauty — the great-
est joy that child or woman can have. " And
I mayn't speak to her of it. Can't she have
just one looking-glass? " The king thought for
a moment and replied : " She shall have a large
looking-glass, and I will take her to see her
reflection in it. But you must go on as before
and never speak to her of such things."
"Thank you," said the governess. "Women
do need a looking-glass." She herself was as
ugly as an unromantic virtue.

On the following day the king had one end
of a little room entirely covered with looking-
glass. Four yards in front of the looking-glass
a silk cord was stretched across the room. He
had a fresh lock put on the door with a little
silver key to it. Then he bound over the work-
men to secrecy and went to find Una. " Una,"
he said, " I have a secret to tell you. It is not
generally known, but you are one of twins.
Your sister is rather like you, and I always
have her dressed exactly like you. Her name
is Altera."

" I have always wanted a sister — a sweet sis-
ter. May I not see her? "

"Yes, under certain conditions. There are
state reasons. I will take you to a room where
she is. You must not speak to her, nor she to
you — as yet ; you may make signs, and if she

WHITE NIGHTS 157

loves you she will copy them exactly; if you
smile at her she will smile at you. You must
not go beyond the silken cord which is stretched
across your part of the room, and she will not
go beyond the cord which is stretched across
her part. And you must not say a word about
it to any one. "

The child excitedly promised obedience.
The king had arranged the light in the looking-
glass room — it was generally called the red
room — so that it should be soft and dim. " I
shall wait outside," said the king. " You must
only stay for a few seconds."

So Una went in, and the king waited out-
side with mad humor shooting out of his eyes.
Presently Una came out again.

"Oh!" she cried eagerly, "how I love her!
How I love her. My sweetest, dearest Altera !
She is far — far more beautiful than I am. And
she must love me, too, because she made all the
signs — and so quickly. When may I speak to
her and kiss her? I am really happy now that
I have Altera. Oh, she is sweet! "

Then the humor all went out of the king's
eyes, and great wonder came into them. " Go
away, Una, for a little while," he said. "I
want to think."

He went out and stretched himself in the
long grass and felt half -frightened at the thing
that he had done. And a little brown snake

158 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

came through the grass and bit him, and he
died.

There was great lamentation in the palace.
The chief counsellor, at the close of the next
day, went to find Una in her own room and
comfort her. She had been crying all day and
her face was tear-stained. As soon as he en-
tered, before he could say anything, she spoke :

" Have you told Altera? " *

"Who is Altera?" asked the counsellor
blankly.

"No, you don't understand. I thought you
would not. You have the king's keys there.
Give me the little silver key and follow me to
the red room." The child already spoke im-
periously, like a queen. "Take that taper,
please. I may be able to tell you about Altera
directly."

At the door of the red room Una took the
taper and entered, bidding the counsellor wait
outside. He left the door ajar and listened.
This is what he heard :

"They told you then, sweetest Altera, and
you were coming to comfort me. I love you
for that. You must not cry any more, because
you are so beautiful, and it spoils you. I want
to kiss you and have you in my arms. Speak !
Speak ! It can't matter now that he is dead.
See, I undo the cord — and you do so too. I
put down my taper — and you put down yours.

WHITE NIGHTS 159

Speak to me ! Come, I can wait no longer. I
must go to you. Ah! you come to me.
Quickly! Quickly!"

Then there was a cry — a crash of glass — a
fall — a low moan — and silence.

" When talk sends you to sleep silence wakes
you," said Yseult, with a little yawn.

"Thank you, Otho," said Rosalys.

" What made you think of that story? " asked
Lilias.

" You did, " I answered, and withdrew from
their presence.

2 — THE STORY OF THE FERRYMAN

A FEW days after I had told my first story,
there began to be some little talk about the Prin-
cess Lilias. There were hints and murmurs,
and the burden of them was that all would be
well with her again when the prince came back.
I knew that they spoke of the Prince Hilaro.
He had come from over seas, from the Isle of
Storm, to our court and had stayed with us for
a while. I saw him often then, and yet it is
hard to describe him. He was young and
tall ; body and soul he was made of beauty, and
brightness, and strength. All his days he
had lived the life of a knight and of a saint,
and all the great deeds that he had done, and
all his long endurances and hardships, and all

100 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

high and spiritual thoughts, seemed to have
given something to the beauty of his face.
He was made perfect. There was no fear in
him, and no vanity, and nothing that was not
noble. He had no idea that he was great, and
to all except himself he was kind. When he
was with us, there were some who thought
that he loved Lilias. I, the king's fool, had
thought it. But he had gone back again to his
home in the Isle of Storm, and had said noth-
ing. None of us had supposed that Lilias loved
him ; she seemed above all love.

Yet now we heard that the king had left the
conference and had gone on to the court in the
Isle of Storm. Despatches were received, and
the old ministers whispered together. Folks
said that Prince Hilaro was coming again, and
that all would be well when the prince came
back.

One night I was bidden to come to the sum-
mer-house that the king had built for the prin-
cesses in the part of the palace gardens which
was called the wilderness. The three prin-
cesses were waiting for me there. Lilias stood
by the window ; she was in shadow ; yet once
I saw her eyes, looking prayers, as it seemed,
at the strewn stars, for it was a glorious, fair
night. Perhaps her thoughts were for a time
far away with Prince Hilaro. Yseult, with
flashing eyes and lips pressed close together,

WHITE NIGHTS 161

touched very softly the strings of her harp.
She made it whisper curses. Then came a scrap
of a wild song. Rosalys, who was seated by
her side, started a little and said :

"That is horrible, Yseult — do not sing it.
But — but — yes, I must hear the rest of it. Go
on. Sing ! "

Yseult turned to me, instead of answering
Rosalys. "Listen, fool," she said, "listen.
This is called the 'Song of Hate/ and I love it.
See, the symphony begins — a beautiful witch'
woman, red-lipped, starving-eyed, passionate,
looking out into the storm." Suddenly she
began to sing. The music was the wickedest
music I ever heard in my life. Here are the
words :

" My eyes look out on the storm and night,
And my heart is mad with fierce delight ;
By my spells have I worked their fate aright—
I have worked the deaths of my brothers three.

" They took my lover from my side ;
There were flashing swords, and a voice that cried ;
At the hands of the cowards my lover died —
Dead, dead ere the dawn they'll bel

"One's gone to sea with his merchandise ;
One's gone to war where the red flag flies ;
One sits reading, to make him wise —
Such men are my brothers three.
11

162 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

" One for his merchandise wins gold ;
One in the battle would fain be bold ;
One learns secrets manifold —
Dead, dead ere the dawn they'll be!

"There's storm and wreck on the sea to-night;
There's a blade that circles swift and bright ;
There's lightning to strike with a falchion white —
These things wait for my brothers three.

" The trader will die in storm and wrack ;
And the soldier will fall and no more come back ;
And the third will be horrible, burned and black —
Dead, dead ere the dawn they'll be! "

Over the harp-strings, breathless and swift,
upward, upward, louder and louder leaped the
storm-music; and suddenly stopped, as though
stabbed by a quick thrust, trembled, and was
still ; and out of the awful hush, slowly, like a
thing that has been crushed and hurt, crept the
melody once more — whispering, sobbing :

" Oh, my dead lover, come ! I fall !
I die, and do not hear thee call ;
I see thy face no more at all —
Come — in this darkness come to me !

" It was for thee I wrought the spell
That even now is working well —
For their three lives my soul in hell —
Dead, dead ere the dawn I'll be !"

The music had us all by the throat. No one
spoke. I had never heard Yseult sing so effec-

WHITE NIGHTS 163

lively, so dramatically before. ""At the last note
she rose quickly, and stood for a second sway-
ing, with fluttering breath. Rosalys was
watching her anxiously. Then like a blind
woman, as if she were finding her way by in-
stinct, with hands outstretched, Yseult made
her way across the room to Lilias, and flung
her arms about her waist, letting her head
droop. They stood there in the shadow to-
gether against the window, and Lilias said
something to her, gently, as one soothes a child.
I did not hear — nor try to hear — what it was.
Rosalys looked nervous questions at me. Yes,
I had nearly been present at a little scene, and
that was not as it should be.

Presently they left the window and sat down
by Rosalys. " Otho," said Lilias, " will you tell
us a story — a quiet story? "

" Yes, do, Otho, " said Yseult. She had sung
the spirit out of her, and there were tears in
her eyes — I do not know why — I cannot under-
stand women. She had forgotten to be scorn-
ful.

This was my story :

On the western side of Philistia lie the Great
Marshes. Stretches of wet sand flash to a sun-
setting ; and there are broad sheets of water and
little pools; and all is flat, and desolate, and

164 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

still. And on the outskirts of the Great Marsh-
es runs a very wide river, tired, and sliding
slowly. There is an island in it with two tall
trees on the island where the herons build, and
further down the river is a ferry and the ferry-
man's cottage.

It was lonely for the ferryman, because he
had none other living with him in the cottage.
The scenery did its best to be diversified, but it
was a poor, flat thing ; and he could not talk to
it, of course. Sometimes for days he would
hear no human voice, because there would be no
one going to Philistia or coming from it by way
of the Great Marshes. On those days it seemed
hard to him that the birds on their island should
be happy, or that the sun should be bright, or
that the long tremble of the moon by night
should turn the marshes to a golden dream.
Sometimes he would speak to himself :

"Why do you go on doing it? The light
will come and the darkness will follow with its
sleep, whether you live or die. And all will be
the same, whether you live or die. For if you
died another would come to row the folk across
the wide river, one who would perhaps have
wife and child to make a sweetness of this soli-
tude. Why do you go on? "

Or he would speak to the river :

" River, why do you go on ? Do you not know
what will be the end of it — the awful, limitless

WHITE NIGHTS 165

sea where you will be lost, lost? Why did you
come this way? Why did you not pass through
the city — four miles yonder — where there are
children, and love, and laughter? Poor river,
you could not help yourself, just as no man can
help himself. The tilt of the land for you and
the set of circumstances for me ; and we both
go on."

On the other side of the river, nearer to Phil-
istia, there stood a tall tower, and in the tower
there hung a great bell ; so that those who came
from Philistia and would cross the wide river
might make the bell speak. Far away on his
side the ferryman could hear the bell, and would
bring his boat to take the folk across.

Now one night he lay awake, obeying that
wise ordinance by which the more a man wishes
to sleep and forget, the more it is absolutely
certain that he will lie awake and think. And
suddenly he heard in the distance on the other
side of the river the bell clanging irregularly.

"It is a woman," he thought to himself.
Hurriedly he dressed, and pulled his heavy old
boat across over the still river to the landing-
stage. There was a lantern burning there all
night, and by its light he saw on the lowest
step a woman standing — a strange figure.

She had an imperious face, but the pride of
her gray eyes and firm mouth was touched and
softened by weariness and sorrow. Over her

166 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

hair and shoulders she had flung something of
silver and gray ; her dress was white and gold,
and the train of it was flung over one arm ; he
could see tiny silken shoes and the flash of gems
on the buckles. She was splendid in the lan-
tern light, with the screen of dark trees behind
her that hid the roadway. But what did she
alone by night in such attire?

She stepped into the boat, saying nothing,
and seated herself in the stern of it. The ferry-
man, half-dazed with wonder, began to pull
slowly back again with his precious cargo of
gems and beauty, when he heard the sound of
wheels dying away in the distance on the road
that the dark trees hid. " It is the carriage that
brought her," he thought. When they had
reached the middle of the river, she spoke at
last. Her voice was a voice to move men.

"Kow no farther," she said. "Let the boat
drift; and in an hour's time take me back once
more to the landing-stage. My carriage will
have returned, and will be waiting in the
road."

He bowed his head and did as she bade
him, and said nothing. With every tone of
her voice and with every glance of her gray
eyes the world was changing for him. And it
would all be for an hour — for an hour only.
She began to speak once more :

"Did I wake you? No? I was so weary of

WHITE NIGHTS 167

it all. Every night in the city yonder it is the
same for me— dance, and mask, and pageantry ;
crowds, and brilliancy, and glare, and empti-
ness." She laughed softly to herself; and it
was to herself that she seemed to be speaking
when she continued : " To-night I slipped away
unnoticed. It was intolerable, it was stifling.
And I thought of this wide, silent river four
miles away ; I thought that the quiet, the cool-
ness, the drifting, would be sweet for an hour.
Perhaps even now they are wondering — won-
dering." The night was sultry, and she flung
off the shawl of silver and gray; the white
moonlight covered her ; the diamonds sparkled
in her hair and on her white neck.

There was a long spell of silence, and then
she made the ferryman speak of the ways of
birds, of the sandy ridge a mile away, high
above the sea, where the yellow poppies grew ;
of the legend about the ghost-moth ; of his cot-
tage ; of himself. " Alone? " she said ; " always
alone? Almost I would that I were you. You
cannot think how in the end the monotonous
brightness of life wearies and hurts one." She
did not know what she was doing with her
words and her perfect presence. And the talk
went on, broken by easy silences.

A dark thought came to the ferryman. He
could not live with her, with this woman for
whom he seemed to have been waiting all his

168 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

life, for one more hour. But it would not be
hard to die with her, going down under the
sliding waters. No, he would not mar what he
could not make.

And at last, as they neared the landing-stage
again, something seemed to tell her that it would
be kinder not to pay this man in the usual
way. "I want to give you something," she
said. " Let me give you a new boat ; this is so
old."

He shook his head. His eyes were fixed on
the purple flowers dying in the gemmed clasp
at her breast. " May I have those flowers? " he
asked.

Amusement touched the corners of her mouth.
He was the third man who had asked her for
them that night. "You may not," she said
shortly. Two servants were waiting at the
landing-stage, and helped her from the boat.
She had grown a little angry, and she whispered
a word to one of the servants. In obedience the
man flung a couple of gold pieces half-contempt-
uously into the ferryman's boat. The ferry-
man murmured a word of mechanical thanks
and pulled back to the cottage. He made the
boat fast. As it lay there, the moonlight fell
on the gold pieces still lying at the bottom of
the boat.

And the ferryman went into his cottage and
threw himself once more upon his bed. "If

WHITE NIGHTS 169

there is any mercy — any mercy," he cried, "I
shall die this night."

He did not die ; and the nights, and days, and
loneliness went on as before ; and nothing was
changed.

As I went back alone from the summer-house
to the palace, Lilias came up with me and
walked a few steps by my side, in silence, down
the great avenue. And then she put one hand
lightly on my shoulder :

"You are not very happy, Otho, are you? "
she said gently.

I tried to speak, but my voice choked me. I
shook my head.

"Nor I, "she said, "nor I."

3— THE STORY OF SYBIL

I WANDERED aimlessly out into that part of
the gardens which was called the Wilderness.
I had not been bidden to come to the princesses
that night; and it seemed that by this time
all within the palace were sleeping, for all the
lights were out. The day had been stifling and
noisy ; but now beyond the palace, in the ter-
raced gardens and right away to the stretch of
sleeping hills, there were cool, quiet hours. A
shy wind — red-lipped, as I fancied, from secret
kisses of flowers — came stealing out, as though

170 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

it had been afraid to come by day, lest it should
meet people who would not understand it. I
could hear the fall of the fountain, as it whis-
pered love-stories to the ghost-stars reflected in
its dark basin. Suddenly in the plantation, a
little farther off, an owl hooted. It was like
the cry of a mad woman. Then once more
there were only murmurs — whisper of wind,
and trees, and water.

Over the patient crouching hills came the
moon, like a golden spirit flying slowly in its
sleep. The light fell brightly on the gardens of
the palace.

And now I stood at one side of a broad lawn,
and on the farther side was the plantation.
All day Lilias had been in my thoughts, and I
knew by sympathy that she was in the night ; I
was not startled when I saw her come out from
the darkness of yonder trees on to the lawn.
She was all in white — a peaceful figure. She
had seen me, and came toward me, stretch-
ing out both hands. " Otho," she said, " Otho,
you too? I am glad, because I want a story.
Rosalys and Yseult are sleeping, and I thought
that I could not send for you because it was so
late. Tell me a story to take me from my
thoughts."

We walked together to an old stone seat under
the trees. She sat down there, and I stretched
myself on the grass at her feet, waiting to see

WHITE NIGHTS 171

my story that I was to tell her. I looked out
into the night and then upward to her. The
scent of the white flowers that she wore came
down to me ; almost I heard her thoughts. And
all the world seemed a mist of dreams and pict-
ures, and she alone was real. Life was like a
tense string of a 'cello, touched steadily by the
bow, vibrating, pleading. Suddenly I became
conscious that she was speaking to me. I fancy
she was asking me if I were tired, if I would
rather not tell her a story that night.
"No, no," I said, "I see the story now."

There was once a girl-child who had very
little luck indeed. She had six sisters all of a
larger size and of a more comely appearance
than herself, who loved her and were rather
amused at her. For she was always demurely
sad; and yet obviously wanted to be happy,
and thought a good deal about different ways to
be happy.

"I'm afraid she's not a very pretty child,"
said the eldest sister, who was a beauty. " Poor
little Sybil! she will feel that when she
grows up."

This was true. The Fates had given Sybil
short red hair, and freckles, and a curious, sal-
low little face that had lots of thoughts in it but
no dimples.

172 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

When she was quite a small child her sisters
gave her a large doll which was all that mech-
anism and wax could be. "That's to make
you happy," said the eldest sister.

u Is it? " said Sybil ; " thank you." She took
the large doll and squeezed its waist according
to instructions, and thereout came something
like a very bad quack.

"It's saying 'papa,' " exclaimed the second
sister.

" Is it? " said Sybil ; " thank you." Then she
kissed the large doll on a portion of its face.
Now the large doll was very cold and tasted
very much of paint, and did not kiss her back
again.

"Thank you all very much," said Sybil.
" And I like you for being so kind to me. But
the doll's not— not IT."

"What's IT? " asked the third sister.

"I don't know — the thing I want most
badly."

"We can all of us kiss you," explained the
eldest sister, " and we like kissing you, if that's
IT."

Sybil shook her head. " If you couldn't kiss
me — couldn't anyhow — and yet somehow did, I
believe that would be something like IT."

And at this Sybil's six sisters smiled amusedly
and said she was a queer child, and let her be.
And years passed ; and Sybil went on being de-

WHITE NIGHTS 173

murely sad — she never grumbled ; and she grew
taller, and older, but not prettier. On her four-
teenth birthday she had not yet found what she
wanted, and did not yet know what it was.
She went out into the garden and walked to
an archway where the sun was blazing. Round
the archway clematis grew, and one grand pur-
ple flower touched her cheek as she went under
the archway. She stopped short and picked it,
and held it out a little way from her in the
bright sunlight.

"You do know me well," she said. She was
sometimes rather shy in speaking her thoughts
to her sisters; but to inarticulate beauty she
would often speak freely. " And if I knew you
as well, that would be almost — almost IT."

Then she put the flower in her dress. Her
eldest sister saw it there. " I wouldn't wear
purple flowers, if I were you, Sybil; you see
your hair's "

"Yes, yes— don't," said Sybil piteously. "I
know — you're right — I won't wear them any
more." And she gave the purple flower to her
sister, whom it suited admirably. And the
sister being pleased offered to kiss Sybil.

" No — not now, " pleaded Sybil.

" What a quaint child you are ! Why not? "

"Because — because it wouldn't make any
difference," said Sybil, laughing as she went
away; and she went straight upstairs to her

174 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

own room and lay down on her bed and cried
bitterly without knowing why.

Two more years passed, and many things
happened. Four of her sisters got married
and one of them died. And the one that died
was the happiest, though that has nothing to
do with the story. So Sybil was left now with
only one sister, whose name was Helen. At
sixteen years old Sybil wanted IT more than
ever, and yet she did not know what it was.
And one day she was reading some queer verses
called "Values," by a man who had failed at
verse and quite a variety of other things. And
these verses, not good enough to quote, made
some impression upon her. They told that
when work was all done and all ridiculed, when
you were left out, passed by, or even execrated,
when you saw that you had done your best and
that nobody thought it was worth having done
— you need not care if there was one — that one
— to tell you not to mind, because she knew and
understood. Sybil read these verses several
times, and it seemed to her that the man who
wrote them must have known IT.

She was not seventeen when she first knew.
She saw a man falling in love with her sister
Helen, and she saw her sister fall very much in
love with the man. And for Sybil this man
was the one — that one. The whole thing
dawned on her one evening — an evening that

WHITE NIGHTS 175

she had got through somehow, she hardly knew
how. Only she was glad when the man had
gone from the house, and she had said good-
night to Helen and found refuge in her own
room. For a time she stood before her window,
lonely, trembling, hardly daring to think. Then
she turned to a bowl of flowers on her table and
took out one. It was the ugliest flower there, a
rose of an unpleasant pink color, very hard and
knob-like, with hardly any fragrance. She
chose it because it was such an ugly, forsaken
little monstrosity. And she whispered to it all
her story — her ordinary, commonplace story—
that yet hurt her just as much as if it had been
a novelty and worth putting in a book. " Now
go to sleep," she said, as she put the rose back
in the bowl, "and don't tell the other flowers."
She was wondering if it were possible that ugly,
deformed rose had the same kind of trouble.

In spite of trouble she slept for an hour, and
woke up to find with a kind of surprise that the
world was going on just the same. "Yes,"
she sighed, " that will be the worst — to go on as
if nothing had happened, when it's just every-
thing for me that has happened ; and not to let
Helen see; not to let any one even guess."

And blessed are the ugly failures who have
feelings, for their days are generally long in
the land. Sybil lived to be an old maid and
grew a shade uglier, and was thought by some

176 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

to be rather cantankerous. She was only rather
heart-broken.

Far away in the East a new day was begin-
ning.

" Yes, yes," said Lilias, " it is hard for women
who are not beautiful and yet have hearts. It's
harder always for women than for men. "

We walked back together toward the palace.
I wonder whether what she said was true — if
such things really are harder for women.

4— THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE

OUR good, erratic king had come back again
from the Isle of Storm. He looked as if he
knew things and as if they pleased him. But
he was taken with an unusual fit of discretion
and said nothing. Sometimes I noticed Lilias
looking wistfully at him, as if she had expected
a message. Yet there were the old rumors —
rumors that the Prince Hilaro was coming back
to us once more, for the love he had of Lilias ;
and that all would be well when the prince
came back.

The rich summer days went by in a beautiful
adagio. By day the sun was hot and the air
was still ; there was a patience in everything,
a waiting for something to come. The green
stalks, growing all together, were happy, yet

WHITE NIGHTS 177

longing; for they knew they would be golden
and happier soon. The leaves of the lime-trees
were passionate with innumerable bright trem-
blings. '* Yes, we will wait," they said. "We
will wait quite calmly. But, oh ! to fall gently
down on to the dark, fragrant earth, and to lie
there in cool brown quiet until the feet of the
little children pass through and make us a rus-
tling music for their pleasure ! " But in the
evening the clouds were sorrowful because the
sun had loved them — kissed them until they
were crimson — and now he was going away.
And at night in the plantation the nightingale
sang, " To be beloved is the only joy ; and to
love is the only sorrow ; but the miracle that
passes music comes when that joy and sorrow
meet. The silence of it is silence on fire." The
frogs heard it and croaked, " Utterly morbid !
utterly morbid ! " They had the trained critical
taste, those frogs. Yet the nightingale, who
did not sing exclusively for publication, went
on : " Come to me, fiery silence ! Come to me
now ! For of sorrow, sorrow only, I am a- weary.
Come to rne ! "

On one of these warm summer nights the
princesses and I were together in the south
room. The windows were open ; and the moon-
light came just into the room, blending curi-
ously with the faint yellow glow from the
hanging lamp. The great mastiff, that belonged
12

178 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

to Kosalys, was stretched at the feet of its mis-
tress, asleep. Yseult lay back upon deep cush-
ions, her hands clasped behind her head ; there
was generally a pretty kind of insolence in her
look, but to-night her eyes seem softer. Since
that night when she sang I had liked her better
— for all her petulance and waywardness. And
of Lilias it is not easy to speak. For although
she was always beautiful, at certain times her
beauty was more eloquent than at others. The
gray eyes go to Paradise; her eyes to-night
seemed as though already they saw within the
gates.

I have often wondered that I dared to tell
Lilias any stories at all.

This was the story that I told her:

"And so," said the king not unkindly, "they
took you away, did they? "

He was a young king and quite new to the
conquering business. His father, whom he
had succeeded, had done well at it. His minis-
ters had told him that it was among the dearest
traditions of his country. So he had done a
little — just a very little — conquering ; and now
he was trying to look at it from the point of
view of the conquered. He was talking it over
with one of the captives. The captive whom
he had chosen for this purpose was a woman,

WHITE NIGHTS 179

young and most wickedly beautiful. He was a
king, but he was also a man.

The king and the captive were alone together.
It was a quaint room, hung with dim tapestries,
lit by tapers placed in little groups. There
were spots of light in the room, and corners
where the shadows were deep and dark. There
were rugs lying loosely on the black polished
floor. The king himself was lounging care-
lessly in the deep window-seat; he had the
curious, half -reckless look that comes from too
much happiness and success. Behind him were
the leaded, diamond-shaped panes of greenish
glass. Old trees growing just outside stretched
thin arms and tapped lightly on the glass when
the wind blew ; behind the trees one saw a flat
country meeting a deep gray sky with a young
moon in it and as many stars as it wanted.
The captive had stretched herself at full length
on a low couch in a recess of the room, facing
the king. There was the grace of an untrained
flower about her. Her hair was midnight, her
eyes were all sleep and fire with long dark
lashes; her lips were red. She was pale, almost
dusky — no pink-and-white beauty. Her dress
was scarlet and gold, a barbaric dress ; but it
loved her and went the way that made her most
impressive. It was clasped at her breast by a
strange serpent, wrought in gold, with diamond
eyes that laughed to the taper-light as she

180 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

breathed. One hand held a long spray of
heavily scented white flowers. The other was
thrust into the loose girdle of her dress ; yes, it
was there — a slight, curved blade, but it would
suffice.

" And so they took you away? " the king
said.

She turned her eyes from him and answered :
"Yes, they took me away. My sister was
murdered by them. All whom I loved were
murdered by them. They burnt down our
house and laid waste our lands. And they
treated me most courteously — sweetly, kindly—
and that was the cruellest thing of all." Her
voice had been soft and musical; there had
been no anger in it; yet there was a moment's
glimpse of set white teeth between her red lips
at the close of the sentence. Suddenly she re-
membered that her words were ill-advised; it
was her plan to charm the young king to her,
to win him as most women can win most men,
and then at the right moment to strike with the
poisoned dagger that she had hidden in her dress.
"It was the king's pleasure," she added.
"Shall not a king do as he will?" Her little
fingers clasped firmly the graven gold that made
the handle of her blade. She was surprised
that the king did not speak ; she had been half
afraid that he would be angry with her and
send her away.

WHITE NIGHTS 181

" It was not my pleasure, " the king said at
last. " I do not make war on women. I was
not there — I never knew such things were hap-
pening. But why — why should I excuse myself
to you ? You can never forgive me — for I should
have seen that such things did not happen. I
will conquer no more. "

"That is true," the woman thought to her-
self, "I shall not forgive you, and you will
certainly conquer no more. " She looked straight
into his eyes ; the expression of his face had
changed ; it was troubled ; he was looking fixedly
at her. She began to tell him of her country ;
her voice was soft and alluring; with every
word she drew the spell closer round him. Yes,
she had made her plan well when she had
based it on the fact that the king was a man.

" For the harm that I have done I will pay
to the uttermost, as far as man can," said the
king.

The woman smiled. "That also," she
thought, "was quite true."

" But I am glad that they were kind to you,"
the king added. "Why was that? Yes, I
remember, you can sing. They thought that I
should like to hear you sing. Your name is
Enid, is it not? "

" That is my name. I will sing for you, I

will " she checked herself, and made her eyes

look passionate, unspeakable things. Swift as

182 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

light the passion flashed back from the eyes of
the king. Why did she quiver under it — thrill
under it? She explained it to herself that it
was just from the joy of vengeance.

" It was war for the sake of war," the king
said sadly. " My ministers advised me into it.
Surely there must be something which I can do
to make amends."

And then for a long time they talked about
the war. And all the time Enid felt that it
would have been easier for her if the king had
been somehow different. Why was he so
gentle? Why did he seem to want her sympa-
thy and pity? Worse yet — why did he almost
get them? She found herself saying that the
cruelty of the war was not his fault — and be-
lieving it. A chance word of the king's — he
happened to speak of " victory " — brought her
back again to her plot. " I will do it. I can
do it," she said to herself. Just then the king
happened to ask if there were anything that he
could do to make her happier.

"Nothing, I think— I don't know. It is
lonely, very lonely ; and I am not one of those
that suffer it easily. The palace is beautiful ;
the whole of your kingdom is beautiful ; and I
am no longer angry that you are kind to me.
But that is not enough for the happiness of a
woman. I want more. I want sympathy. I
want — oh, I say too much ! "

WHITE NIGHTS 183

She had risen from the low couch, and stood
with swimming eyes and outstretched hands.
It was brilliant art — or perfect nature.

" Enid ! Enid ! " said the king in a low voice.

" I will sing to you," she said. She took her
mandolin from a table near her and ran her
fingers over it to see if it was in tune. Then
she began to put out the taper-lights one by
one. "It is a song that is best sung in the
darkness." She knew that if she saw his face
she would not be able to kill him. Then she
seated herself on the couch again.

She sang the first verse. It was a love-song.
The music to it was the music that takes tight
hold of one. The appeal of it was irresistible.
There was just enough light came through the
windows to show her that the young king had
sprung from his place. He came rapidly across
the room to her. She flung the mandolin on
one side and began to feel hurriedly for the
dagger.

But already he held her hands. She was
standing up now, swaying. Lights seemed to
be dancing through the darkness before her
eyes.

" Enid ! " he was saying. " Forgive me ! I
love you. It is you that have conquered ; I am
the captive."

"No, no," she answered. "You have con-
quered once more. For I meant to kill you,

184 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

and now — now — I love you more than my life
— more than all the world." And the rest of
their words were whispers in the darkness —
broken with long kisses and the happiest tears.
For she had remembered that the king was a
man; but she had forgotten that she herself
was a woman.

"But that is quite wrong," said Yseult.
"She would have killed him first and found
out that she loved him afterward."

5— THE STORY OF AN EXPERIMENT

IT was soon after this that the betrothal of
Princess Lilias and the Prince Hilaro was an-
nounced. I know nothing of the way in which
the betrothal took place, except that Prince
Hilaro sent a messenger to our court, bearing
letters for the king and Princess Lilias. The
announcement had been constantly expected,
and yet it surprised us when it came. A change
took place in Lilias ; her eyes grew wonderfully
bright and eager. There was a faint, beautiful
color in her cheeks. She walked erect, her head
a little thrown back. Great passion is only
possible to those of great spirituality. Now,
as ever before, Lilias was beyond us and above
us. Her sisters, Rosalys and Yseult, now that
she was so soon to leave them, petted her more

WHITE NIGHTS 185

than ever and made much of her. Yet even
at this time I knew that something was wrong
with Yseult. Sometimes she seemed to me to
be acting a part; sometimes she would spend
whole days in solitude; sometimes she would
seem almost to shrink from Lilias. But no
one thought this of any importance. " Yseult
is always wayward." Rosalys said to me.

Joy as well as sorrow has its insomnia, but
many of these sweet summer nights Princess
Lilias could not sleep, and sent for me to tell
her stories. I have already said that I am con-
demned to die; my time is very short and I
cannot write down all those stories. I knew
that if any man in the world was worthy of
Lilias, Hilaro was that man. He was brave
and good and beautiful; rich and of high birth.
And to the man that had much, much was
given. And I, who had nothing, was allowed
to sit at the feet of Princess Lilias and tell her
stories. I would not think about it. It was
too humorous ; and one does not care to think
about his own tragedy, when even he himself
can see that that tragedy is farcical.

I am going to write now the story of the last
night but one. It was expected that on the
following day Prince Hilaro would sail from
his own island, and would arrive by the next
dawn at the court.

The king and several of the courtiers hap-

186 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

pened to have joined the princesses to listen to
the story. They were all grouped together at
one end of the great hall, where the lights were
placed; the farther end of the hall was quite
dark. Yseult had been playing to us and sing-
ing ; her eyes were fixed on me, with guesses
in them. I sat crouched in the shadow. I al-
most thought that Yseult had guessed my
secret. It did not matter. Lilias did not know.
When the news of her betrothal had first been
announced I had put the whole thing from me
and had refused to think about it ; but all this
day I had had to think about it. It came be-
tween me and everything. I could not get past
it. I had a consciousness that I was mastered.

All day the air had been still, heavy, sultry ;
at evening the clouds drew themselves together
and waited in blackness and anger. As the
last notes of the music ceased, a flash of light-
ning, strangely bright, shone over us. The
darkness at the farther end of the hall ran away
from it, and for a moment let us see the dark
panelling and the dim portraits in the deep
frames above. The king involuntarily put his
hand over his eyes and shrank back a little.

" But that was fierce ! " he said.

Almost immediately the high windows began
to rattle ; low and quivering, then sonorous and
prolonged, came the rattle of the thunder. Then
followed the swift kiss of the rain. Yseult

WHITE NIGHTS 187

laughed and touched the harp-strings. It was
the melody of " The Song of Hate " whispered.
Then another flash tore at the darkness with its
white fingers.

"Thank Heaven!" said the king, "that it is
to-morrow night, and not to-night, that the
Prince Hilaro will be on the sea."

As he said these words it happened that I—
and I alone — was closely watching the Princess
Yseult. She half-started from her place, one
hand moved to her throat, her color changed,
and her eyes — well, there was more in them
than I cared to think about.

But this much I knew, and had not known
before, that Yseult loved Prince Hilaro. Under
those light, wayward moods — those flashes of
temper and tenderness — there had been a deep
current that we had never been allowed to see.
I was to learn something of its tragic intensity
later on this night. I guessed even then that in
some way or other Yseult knew that Prince
Hilaro would be crossing the sea that night,
and not — as the rest of us thought — on the mor-
row's night. I know now, by the light of the
events which followed, that while she was play-
ing, singing, laughing this evening, she must
have been maddened with love and jealousy.

It was quite a short story that I told this
night.

188 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

There were once two brothers of a royal house.
One of them, Bertillon, was born in the spring-
time; his younger brother Bruno was born
eighteen months afterward in the autumn. As
soon as they were old enough to do anything
they both began to hate. They hated one an-
other.

In all things they were too well matched. In
appearance they were alike; in the field their
prowess was equal; none could say that one
was more quick-witted than the other. As they
grew up their hatred increased.

"Bertillon," said Bruno one day, "if you
were only a little better than I am, I could bear
with you. But you are not. Your sole superi-
ority lies in age ; you have the virtue of an
antique. "

"Bruno," answered the elder brother, "be a
little worse than I am, and I will forgive you
for existing; you are only inferior in years;
you inspire the same disgust as an excellent
replica."

When the king, their father, died, Bertillon
by reason of his superior age ascended the
throne ; and Bruno, supported by a small section
of the province and with a hopelessly inferior
army, made war upon him. In this war Bruno
was defeated; and, being taken prisoner, was
sentenced to death for his treason by his brother
Bertillon.

WHITE NIGHTS 189

"But," said Bertillon, "I will not tell you on
what day you will die. You will be allowed a
moderate liberty, within the prison walls ; you
may amuse yourself as you will ; one day when
you are not expecting it, when you are in the
middle of some story that interests you, when
you have begun to think that I must have for-
given you — the man to whom this is appointed
will bring you the poisoned cup. Perhaps you
will be made to drink it ; and perhaps the man
will only frighten you, laugh at you, and take
the cup away again for a time. I shall have
you watched, so that you will not be able to
take your own life. I shall play with you. It
will amuse me."

" There must be two to every game, " said Bru-
no. " Nothing that you can do will make the
least difference to me. You are an antique, you
know, and sooner than you think 3'our passion
for being the only extant specimen will get the
better of you, and you will kill me. You have
not even the strength to carry out your own
paltry plans."

As soon as Bruno had been removed, Bertillon
turned to his councillors :

" This is a little experiment of mine. I am
not really going to kill my brother Bruno at all.
He will really be in just the same position as
any one of us, except that he will think about it.
Any one of us may die on any day, at any

190 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

hour or moment ; but we never think about it,
and consequently it does not hurt us. Now
Bruno will be asking himself every moment if
he has another moment to live — if it is worth
while to begin anything, since he may not be
able to finish it. He will think about it, and
consequently he will go mad!"

In three weeks' time Bruno gave in and sent
a humble petition that he might be killed at
once. "For," he said, "I would sooner lose
my life than my reason."

"You are amusing me," was the message
that Bertillon sent back.

"I shall not amuse you any more," was
Bruno's reply. Nor did he. It had suddenly
occurred to him that he was in no worse position
than any one else ; all must die, and none knows
when. He resolutely put the whole thing from
his mind, and lived a very cheerful, pleasant
life.

But, as it happened, Bertillon, in devising
this punishment, had pictured to himself rather
too vividly this awful uncertainty. The thought
of it had fixed its claws in his consciousness
and could not be torn away. By day and night
it haunted him. He constantly heard a voice
warning him, " There may be but one hour be-
tween you and the hereafter."

So it happened curiously enough that it was

WHITE NIGHTS 191

Bertillon, not Bruno, who went mad. Bruno
succeeded him.

The only real things in this life are the things
which exist solely in the imagination.

The storm had ceased. As I passed out of
the great hall into the palace gardens, Lilias
followed me.

" Otho," she said, " to-morrow night you must
tell me another story, for Prince Hilaro will
not arrive until dawn. And then — then there
will be no more need for stories. I am not un-
happy any longer now, Otho. You have been
good to me — is there nothing that I could do for
you? "

She really did not know ; I wonder why.

I walked away in the direction of the coast
that night. It was five miles from the palace.
I felt sure that Prince Hilaro would arrive
this night, and that Yseult not only knew it,
but was the cause of it. I thought it better to
be there, for I had seen for one second into
Yseult 's real nature, and I hardly knew what
she would do. On reaching the cliff I could
see nothing, and being very tired, I flung myself
down in the wet, long grasses that met over my
head, and slept. It was gray dawn when I
was wakened by hearing voices.

192 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

They were the voices of Prince Hilaro and
Yseult. Raising myself slightly, I saw that
they were standing on the cliff edge a few yards
from me.

"I did as your letter asked," he was saying.
" I came a day sooner, and met you here alone,
secretly, at this hour as you wished, because you
said it was necessary for the happiness of Lilias.
And now you have nothing to say but to ask
me if I love her? "

Yseult laughed lightly. " I love Lilias better
than any in the world — save one. I would
give her my life, my soul, everything — except
one."

I crept a little closer, for I knew now what
she would do. But it came sooner than I had
thought.

"What is that one?"

" You, Hilaro ! " she cried, suddenly letting
her voice go as it would — "you, whom I love—
and hate!"

With these words she thrust suddenly at him
with a short, curved knife that she had held
concealed. The blade went into his throat, and
he staggered backward over the cliff. I was
just in time to drag her back from flinging her-
self after him.

" Otho ! Otho ! " she said, panting for breath,
" I have killed him. Let me go."

I took her backward a few paces from the cliff

WHITE NIGHTS 193

edge and looked into her eyes. "Now you
may go, " I said ; " kill yourself also. "

She swayed and fell face downward in the
2^rass, moaning : " I dare not die ! Otho, I dare
not die ! " I had seen that in her eyes.

And there, after a little while, in the gray
dawn I showed her what she must do.

6 — THE STORY OF A PICTURE

I HAD but a short time in which to persuade
Yseult to agree to the plan which I had formed ;
for it was necessary that we should both return
to the palace and enter it unobserved while all
were still sleeping. She was shaken with ex-
citement, terror, fever ; but she had no remorse.

At last I made her believe all that was neces-
sary— that the murder of Hilaro had been com-
mitted in an hour of madness, and was not
really murder; that Lilias must never know
that the sister she loved had killed the man she
loved ; and that if I took the guilt and paid the
penalty it would be best.

"But," said Yseult, "if I take your life to
save mine, that will be murder indeed."

I forget what lie I told her in answer to this.
But I persuaded her. She clung desperately to
life. As we returned she grew quite calm, and
was far more ready and skilful than I in arrang-
ing the details of the plan. I could not think
13

194 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

very well. I was tired out — soul and body —
and wanted to sleep. After a time, I just heard
her speaking without understanding what she
said.

When I got to my own room I slept easily
and dreamlessly. It was late in the day when
I woke again, and the setting sun was shining
in at my windows. Underneath them I heard
the voices of the three princesses as they passed
down the steps of the terrace. Rosalys was
laughing. So the body, shattered and spoiled
by the knife and the jagged rocks, had not yet
been found. The prince's companions were to
come ashore to-night, and had been ordered to
meet him on the cliff. Yseult had told me this.
They would find the body and bring it with
them to the palace.

That night I told a story to the three princesses
under the open sky, on a broad lawn in the palace
gardens. I knew that Lilias had chosen this
spot because from it she could see the road to the
palace, bending with a broad, white curve in the
moonlight. She thought that her lover would
come by that way before the dawn, with music
and gladness, strong and beautiful, with the
retinue from his court attending him. She
wished to be among the first to welcome him
and do him honor. Her eyes were bright with
ecstasy.

Both Rosalys and Lilias were very affection-

WHITE NIGHTS 195

ate with Yseult that night. " Poor Yseult has
hardly spoken a word all day," said Rosalys.
"You are not ill, Yseult, are you? "

She shook her head sadly. She was acting
her part to perfection.

"And now tell your story," said Rosalys,
turning to me. " There will be little sleep to-
night for any of us. All within the palace are
busy preparing to receive the prince. There is
a watchman on the towers who will see the
lights that the prince's company will carry as
they come down yonder road, and will give the
signal of his approach. Then all the palace will
be lit up, and there will be music and revelry."

So I began my story.

As generally happens, these two people, who
had not long been married, were coming down
from the heights. He, the poet, felt almost
with regret the vanishing of that fierce sense of
exaltation which had been his when he first
knew that this woman loved him, and trembled
in knowing it. He could recall old days, before
he had spoken, when he had weighed each
chance word that he heard from her and drawn
from it ecstasy or despair, when every moment
that he did not see her had seemed to him blank
and wasted. He had not ceased to love her
now; only there were no more discoveries to

196 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

make and nothing more to say, and vain repeti-
tion had drawn all the sweetness from sweet
love- words. It was quiet, placid love. He was
so sure of it that he could put it from his mind
for a little. There had been days, he remem-
bered, when he had been unable to write or read
for thinking of one thing ; there had been nights
when he had been unable to sleep for continued
thinking of one thing. They never came now.
She felt the change too. She had fallen in love
with the poet — almost with the reputation ; she
had married the man. The days of fears, of
hopes, of secrets, of idealizing were over. She
loved him still, but without any illusions, with-
out honestly thinking herself honored by his
love. He had just that little kink in the brain,
just that tiny turn of the temperament, which
makes the difference^ between the poet and the
ordinary man ; but in most things he was only
ordinary. And their love was becoming ordi-
nary too. They no longer felt that all the rest of
the world lay fathomless depths below them ; they
no longer felt angry with all other people for their
gross impertinence in existing ; on the contrary,
they were rather pleased when some of the rest
of the world came to see them. It made a
change.

And yet they loved one another — in the or-
dinary, quiet way — until that fateful time
when he had her portrait painted by Raoul. A

WHITE NIGHTS 197

portrait by Raoul was generally a revelation of
the person painted. "That is like my son," a
woman said, looking at his portrait by Raoul;
" but there is a look in the face which my son
never has — it is the look of a murderer." Three
years afterward, at her son's execution, she
remembered that she had said that. " It's quite
true," a girl said to herself, looking at her own
portrait by Raoul, " but I had never told any
one — how did he know? " It was acknowledged
that he was the greatest portrait painter of his
time and country — if he would only give up
playing little tricks to amuse himself. He was
also accused of laziness ; and it is certain that
he did not devote himself now, as he had done
in his younger days, wholly to art. He had
taken up with sundry curious studies, and his
success had made him melancholy, taciturn, sar-
donical. He was middle-aged, unmarried, and
rather displeasing in manner. When he had
finished the portrait of the poet's wife, he
smiled. Raoul seldom smiled, but the poet's
wife had interested him, and he had just made
a little experiment.

For a few weeks he heard nothing, and then
the woman came to his studio, attended only by
one servant, who carried the portrait. At her
orders the man put the portrait down and left
her alone with Raoul.

"Raoul," she said, "my husband is away,

198 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

and I want you to alter your portrait of me
before he returns."

Raoul did not seem surprised. He hummed
a fragment of a tune and glanced at her from
head to foot.

" Why have you been crying? " he asked
bluntly.

" I have not been crying."

The artist shrugged his shoulders and went
on humming his tune. Suddenly he stopped.
" If you tell me lies— " he began. Then he
stopped again, for there was no doubt that the
woman was crying now. He sat down and
waited patiently ; she told a strange story in
between her sobs.

In brief, she said that her husband had, ever
since the arrival of the portrait, ceased to love
her. He had been absolutely cold to her,
shunned her society, had never even spoken to
her if he could avoid it. "But," she said, "he
has fallen wildly in love with my portrait. All
day he keeps it before him. He cares for noth-
ing but to look at it. It is an absurdity — a
madness ; but it makes me wretched, for I never
loved him so much in my life before. Oh, it is
brutal of you to make me tell you this ! What
is it? What have you put into the portrait that
I have not got? "

"Nothing," replied Raoul, "absolutely noth-

WHITE NIGHTS 199

ing. I have simply left something out. I have
painted you as though you had never loved and
would not love. He is a poet and is chiefly
attracted by the unattainable. "

" They told me that in the portrait I looked
too cold."

" Too cold? Yes, that is one sign — one very
little sign, but it is not all, or nearly all. What
I have done is not merely a trick of expression.
They do not understand — these people. But
your husband is a poet — understands more than
he can explain."

"Will you alter it?"

" No, I should spoil it. Not that I care for
art — except as a means to mastery. Mastery
is what I want — to make people do things, feel
things, see things, just as I want — to get a grip
of people without their knowing how."

He looked at her again, very curiously. Then
he took the portrait to the light and carefully
examined it. " Ah ! " he exclaimed under his
breath. Then he turned to the woman.

" Go away. You shall have the portrait this
evening, and your husband will soon give up
loving it. You may take my word for it. I
have changed my mind."

As soon as she had gone he went from his
studio to a room which was fitted as a labora-
tory, and returned with a little bottle containing

200 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

some colorless oily stuff. He began to work,
using great precautions. Then he sent the por-
trait back.

The poet's wife hung the picture once more
in her husband's study in its usual place, and
lit the candles that stood below it. She could
see that the lips in the portrait had been just
touched, but she could not see that any difference
had been made. Then she went to bed.

Later at night she heard her husband return
to the house. The door of his study slammed,
and then all the house was quiet. She waited
for hours, and he did not come upstairs. At
last, in the dawn, she could bear the suspense
no longer, but arose and went down to the
study. She knocked, but there was no answer.
She thought that he might be asleep, and opened
the door softly. The candles were flaring, yel-
low and ghastly in the gray dawn, lighting up
the little picture of her own loveless face.

The poet lay in an ugly attitude, as though
he had fallen, on the floor beneath the picture.
His lips were white, save in just one place
where there was a curious scarlet stain; and
his eyes

" Otho, stop ! stop ! " cried Yseult. We were
all startled a little at the suddenness of it. For

WHITE NIGHTS 201

a moment I was doubtful, and then I saw that
all was right, that she was just carrying out
the plan. "I can bear it no longer," she went
on, turning to Lilias ; " Lilias, dearest Lilias, I
must tell you. Hilaro will not come to you to-
night. He will never come to you any more.
He is dead."

"What are you saying? What do you
mean?" said Rosalys excitedly. Lilias said
nothing. She was staring blankly at the white
curve of the road.

"This morning at dawn I was on the cliff
edge. Otho and Prince Hilaro stood there to-
gether. And as I watched, hidden, Otho drew
a knife and stabbed the prince in the throat,
and flung him over the cliff."

She spoke boldly, defiantly, dramatically. As
she was speaking, I saw lights appear in the dis-
tance on the road, and knew that they were bring-
ing the body of the dead prince. Lilias saw
them, and with a low cry fell forward on the
grass fainting. The watchman on the tower saw
them too, and gave his signal. Immediately
the whole palace was lit up, and the doors were
flung open, and the musicians stationed there
began a joyful triumphant march.

" I will go and stop the music and " Yseult

paused, then hastened into the palace.

And Rosalys said to me, " Why do you stand

202 STORIES AND INTERLUDES

there, Otho, with staring eyes, doing nothing?
Deny it! I command you to deny it."
" It is true !" I answered.

And so all ends happily — for me, at least.
There was a trial — a matter of form, since both
accuser and accused were agreed . To have lived
on would have been sad enough ; but to die is
easy. I have often wondered why those who
would write or tell a pathetic story will make
it end with death. To have endured the great-
est sorrow and still to live is sad indeed. Death
can be very happy. Only I would that by my
death I could bring back Hilaro to life ! Oh,
my Princess Lilias, I have at least saved you
one thing — you can still love your sister Yseult !
Sooner or later I think that you will make her
good like yourself. Indeed, she was good but
for that night of madness ; and there are things
which we cannot control at all — we cannot say
that we will love this and not that. It is as it
comes. No man thinking of his own love-story
can well believe in his own free-will. I know
that Princess Lilias will not lose her reason nor
take her life; after some months she will try
to speak and smile once more ; she will, most
pathetically, interest herself in the lives of
others. But she will never forget, and memory

WHITE NIGHTS 203

will soon wear out her strength. I have heard
no more of the princesses. I have written all
this in the week between my sentence and my
death. I am told nothing, and I can only
wonder.

But it is late — late at night — and to-morrow
there will be no more wonder of any kind, and
no more trouble, and no more vain longing.

THE END.

TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES.

A Pure Woman, Faithfully Presented. By THOMAS
HARDY, author of "The Woodlanders," "A Laodi-
cean," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Orna-
mental, $1 50. Neiv Edition, revised and consider-
ably expanded by the author, according to the latest
English edition.

A remarkably fine and moving story. It is marked by all
those qualities of genius which we are accustomed to associate
with the work of Mr. Hardy. It is full of poetry of incident and
phrase. ... A great story. Nobody should miss it. — N. Y. Sun.

In "Tess of the D'Urbervilles " Thomas Hardy exhibits the
strongest, and in some respects the best, piece of literary work
that has ever left his pen. — Philadelphia Ledger.

One of the few great novels of the century. — N. Y. Mail
and Express.

Not only by far the best work Mr. Hardy has done ; it is one
of the strongest novels that have appeared for a long time. . . .
A more tragic or powerfully moving story than that of Tess lives
not in fiction ; and the pity of it is heightened by the exquisite
pastoral scenes in which it is mainly set. . . . The book is full
of suggestion on questions which have never agitated men's
minds more than at the present time. ... It is certainly a mas-
terpiece, and one upon which the reputation of the author may
safely rest. — N. Y. Tribune.

Mr. Hardy has written a novel that is not only good, but
great. . . . "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" is well in front of Mr.
Hardy's previous work, and is destined, there can be no doubt,
to rank high among the achievements of Victorian novelists. —
Athencenm, London.

The best English novel that has appeared for many a day.
. . .The book is the most ingeniously constructed and artisti-
cally developed that has been produced by an English novelist
since George Eliot's time. — Philadelphia Bulletin.

Powerful and strange in design, splendid and terrible in exe-
cution, this story brands itself upon the mind as with the touch
of incandescent iron. — Academy, London.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, N. Y.

3s- The above work is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the
publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Can-
ada, or Mexico, on receipt of price.

W. D. HOWELLS.

THE QUALITY OF MERCY. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 60.
AN IMPERATIVE DUTY. A Novel. 12.no, Cloth, $1 00.

THE SHADOW OF A DREAM. A Story. 12mo, Cloth,
$1 00 ; Paper, 50 cents.

A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth,
2 vols., $2 00 ; Paper, Illustrated, $1 00.

ANNIE KILBURN. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper,
75 cente.

APRIL HOPES. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 75

cents.

MODERN ITALIAN POETS. Essays and Versions. With
Portraits. 12mo, Half Cloth, $2 00.

CRITICISM AND FICTION. With Portrait. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1 00.

A BOY'S TOWN. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,

$1 25.

THE MOUSE-TRAP, AND OTHER FARCES. Illustrated.
12mo, Cloth, $1 00.

THE ALBANY DEPOT. A Farce. Illustrated. Small 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents.

THE GARROTERS. A Farce. Small 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

|®» The above works will be sent by mail, postage jvepaid, to any part
of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the yice.

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER.

AS WE WERE SAYING. With Portrait, and Illustrated by
H.W. McViCKAR and Others. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 00.
So dainty and delightsome a little book may it be everybody's good

hap to possess.— Evangelist, N. Y.

OUR ITALY. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut

Edges and Gilt Top, $2 60.

In this book are a little history, a little property, a few fascinating
statistics, many interesting facts, much practical suggestion, and
abundant humor and charm.— Evangelist, N. Y.

A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD. A Novel. Post
8vo, Half Leather, $1 50.

The vigor and vividness of the tale and its sustained interest are not
Its only or its chief merits. It is a study of American life of to-day,
possessed with shrewd insight and fidelity.— GEORGK WIU.IAM CURTIS.

A powerful picture of that phase of modem life in which unscrupu-
lously acquired capital is the chief agent. — Boston Post.

STUDIES IN THE SOUTH AND WEST, with Comments on
Canada. Post 8vo, Half Leather, $1 75.

Perhaps the most accurate and graphic account of these portions of
the country that has appeared, taken all in all. ... A book most
charming— a book that no American can fail to enjoy, appreciate, aud
highly prize.— Boston Traveller.

THEIR PILGRIMAGE. Richly Illustrated by C. S. REINHART.

Post 8vo, Half Leather, $2 00.

Mr. Warner's pen-pictures of the characters typical of each resort,
of the manner of life followed at each, of the humor and absurdities
peculiar to Saratoga, or Newport, or Bar Harbor, as the case may be,
are as good-natured as they are clever. The satire, when there is any,
is of the mildest, aud the general tone is that of one glad to look on
the brightest side of the cheerful, pleasure-seeking world with which
he mingles.— Christian Union, N. Y.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

jg®3- The above works will be sent ~by mail, postage prepaid, to any part
of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSOK

JUPITER LIGHTS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25.
EAST ANGELS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25.
ANNE. Illustrated. 16uio, Cloth, $1 25.
FOR THE MAJOR. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.
CASTLE NOWHERE. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.
RODMAN THE KEEPER. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.

There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson's writing
which invests all her characters with lovable qualities. — Jewish Advo-
cate, N. Y.

Miss Woolson is among our few successful writers of interesting
magazine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the de-
lineation of her heroines no less than in the suggestive pictures of
local life.— Jewish Messenger, N. Y.

Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist lau-
reate Boston Globe.

Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, and
conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development of a
story is very remarkable.— London Life.

Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox
novelist, but strikes a new and richly-loaded vein, which so far is all
her own ; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sen-
sation, and we put down the book with a sigh to think our pleasant
task of reading it is finished. The author's lines must have fallen to
her in very pleasant places ; or she has, perhaps, within herself the
wealth of womanly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all
she writes. Such books as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of
the day— a quality sadly wanting in novels of the time. — Whitehall
Review, London.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

O3F The above icorks sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the
United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

BY MARY E. WILKINS.

A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25.

A HUMBLE ROMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo,
Cloth, Extra, $1 25.

Only an artistic hand could have written these stories, and they will
make delightful reading. — Evangelist, N. Y.

The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set them apart
in a niche of distinction where they have no rivals.— Literary World,
Boston.

The reader who buys this book and reads it will find treble his money's
worth in every one of the delightful stories. — Chicago Journal.

Miss Wilkins is a writer who has a gift for the rare art of creating the
short story which shall be a character study and a bit of graphic picturing
in one ; and all who enjoy the bright and fascinating short story will wel-
come this volume. — Boston Traveller.

The author has the unusual gift of writing a short story which is com-
plete in itself, having a real beginning, a middle, and an end. The volume
is an excellent one. — Observer, N. Y.

A gallery of striking studies in the humblest quarters of American
country life. No one has dealt with this kind of life better than Miss
Wilkins. Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn,
sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures. — N. Y. Tribune.

The charm of Miss Wilkins's stories is in her intimate acquaintance
and comprehension of humble life, and the sweet human interest she
feels and makes her readers partake of, in the simple, common, homely
people she draws. — Springfield Republican.

There is no attempt at fine writing or structural effect, but the tender
treatment of the sympathies, emotions, and passions of no very extraor-
dinary people gives to these little stories a pathos and human feeling quite
their own. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.

The author has given us studies from real life which must be the result
of a lifetime of patient, sympathetic observation. ... No one has done
the same kind of work so lovingly and so well.— Christian Register,
Boston.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

XSkirThe above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the
United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

SEVEN DREAMERS.

A Collection of Seven Stories. By ANNIE TRUMBULL
SLOSSON. pp. 286. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1 25.

A charming collection of character sketches and stories
— humorous, pathetic, and romantic — of New England
country life. The volume includes "How Faith Came
and Went," "Botany Bay," "Aunt Randy," "Fishin'
Jimmy," " Butterneggs," "Deacon Pheby's Selfish Nat-
ur'," and " A Speakin' Ghost."

They are of the best sort of " dialect" stories, full of humor
and quaint conceits. Gathered in a volume, with a frontispiece
which is a wonderful character sketch, they make one of the
best contributions to the light literature of* this season. — Ob-
server, N. Y.

Stories told with much skill, tenderness, and kindliness, so
much so that the reader is drawn powerfully towards the poor
subjects of them, and soon learns to join the author in looking
behind their peculiarities and recognizing special spiritual gifts
in them. — N. Y. Tribune.

These stories are of such originality, abounding in deep pa-
thos and tenderness, that one finds himself in perfect accord
with the writer as he reads of the hallucinations of these he-
roes.— Watchman, Boston.

Dreamers of a singular kind, they affect us like the inhabit-
ants of allegories — a walk of literary art in which we have had
no master since the pen dropped from the faint and feeble fin-
gers of Hawthorne, and which seems native to Mrs. Slosson. —
N. Y. Mail and Express.

The sweetness, the spiciness, the aromatic taste of the forest
has crept into these tales. — Philadelphia Ledger.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

he above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part
of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

BEN-HUE :

A TALE OF THE CHRIST. By LEW. WALLACE. 16mo,
Cloth, $150; Half Leather, $2 00; Three-quarter Leath-
er, $2 50 ; Half Calf, $3 00 ; Full Leather, $3 50 ; Three-
quarter Crushed Levant, $4 00. — GARFIELD EDITION.
2 volumes. Illustrated with twenty full-page photo-
gravures. Over 1,000 illustrations as marginal draw-
ings by WILLIAM MARTIN JOHNSON. Crown 8vo, Silk
and Gold, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $7 00. (In a
Gladstone box.)

Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of
this romance does not often appear in works of fiction. . . . Some of
Mr. Wallace's writing is remarkable for its pathetic eloquence. The
scenes described in the New Testament are rewritten with the power
and skill of an accomplished master of style.— N. Y. Times.

Its real basis is a description of the life of the Jews and Romans at
the beginning of the Christian era, and this is both forcible and brill-
iant. . . .We are carried through a surprising variety of scenes; we
witness a sea-fight, a chariot-race, the internal economy of a Roman
galley, domestic interiors at Antioch, at Jerusalem, and among the
tribes of the desert; palaces, prisons, the hauiits of dissipated Roman
youth, the houses of pious families of Israel. There is plenty of ex-
citing incident; everything is auimated,^vivid, and glowing.— Ar. Y.
Tribune.

It is full of poetic beauty, as though born of an Eastern sage, and
there is sufficient of Oriental customs, geography, nomenclature, etc.,
to greatly strengthen the semblance.— Boston Commonwealth.

" Ben-Uur " is interesting, and its characterization is fine and strong.
Meanwhile it evinces careful study of the period iu which the scene is
laid, and will help those who read it with reasonable attention to real-
ize the nature and conditions of Hebrew life in Jerusalem and Ro-
man life at Autioch at the time of our Saviour's advent — Examiner,
N.Y.

The book is one of unquestionable power, and will be read with un-
wonted interest by many readers who are weary of the conventional
novel and romance.— Boston Journal.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

JUST" The above icork sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part yf the
United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of Hie price.

BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON.

BAR HARBOR DAYS. A Tale of Mount Desert. Il-
lustrated by Fenn and Hyde. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25.

A bright story of life at Mount Desert. ... It is exceedingly well
done, and the scenery, the ways of the people, and the social methods
of the rnsticators lend interest to the book.— Christian Advocate, N. Y.

The book is bright and readable. —Courier, Boston.

A delightful book about Mount Desert, its summer inhabitants,
their sayings and doings. — A'. Y. Sun.

One of the most attractive books of the season, and will be in great
demand by readers who wish an original, captivating summer idyl.—
Hartford Post.

HELEN TROY 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.

It is a breezy little society novel, with a pretty plot and a number
of capitally drawn characters. ... It is always bright, fresh, and en-
tertaining, and has an element of naturalness that is particularly
pleasing. The descriptions are very spirited, the conversations are
full of point and often genuinely witty, and the tone of the whole is
both refined and delicate. — Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston.

The book is written with exceeding cleverness, and abounds in de-
lightful little pictures.— The Critic, N. Y.

Mrs. Harrison's style is crisp, epigrammatic, piquant ; she shades
her characters artistically, paints from real life, and, without hurrying
the reader along, never lets her story drag. . . . The merit of the work
lies in the fidelity of its portraiture and the felicity of its utterance.—
N. Y. Herald.

GOLDEN ROD . AN IDYL OF MOUNT DESERT,
32mo, Paper, 25 cents ; Cloth, 40 cents.

A very sweet little story of a successful courtship, wrought into a
charming description of scenery and life ou Mount Desert. — Spring-
field (111.) State Journal.

This is a most charming summer story — "An Idyl of Mount Des-
ert"—the mere reading of which makes you long to be there, and to
feel sure you will find the delightful people, and just in the particular
nooks, you have been reading about. — Galexburg (111.) Republican
Register.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

fy The above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the
United States or Canada, on receipt of the price.

BY AMELIE KIVES.

A BROTHER TO DRAGONS, AND OTHER OLD-TIME

TALES. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00.

VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. A Story. Illustrated.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00.

Oue is permitted to discover qualities of mind and n proficiency and
capacity in art from which something new aud distinctively the work
of genius may be anticipated in American literature.— Boston Globe.

Miss Rives has imagination, breadth, and a daring and courage
oftenest spoken of as masculine. Moreover, she is exquisitely poet-
ical, and her ideals, with all the mishaps of her delineations, are of an
exalted order.— K Y. Star.

It was little more than two years ago that Miss Rives made her first
literary conquest, a conquest BO complete and astonishing as at once
to give her fame. How well she has sustained and added to the repu-
tation she so suddenly won, we all know, and the permanency of that
reputation demonstrates conclusively that her success did not depend
upon the lucky striking of a popular fancy, but that it rests upon en-
during qualities that are developing more and more richly year by
year. —Richmond State.

It is evident that the author has imagination in an unusual degree,
much strength of expression, aud skill in delineating character. — Bos-
ton Journal.

There are few young writers who begin a promising career with so
much spontaneity and charm of expression as is displayed by Misa
Rives. — Literary World, Boston.

The trait which the author seems to take the most pleasure in de-
picting is the passionate loyalty of a girl to her lover or of a young
•wife to her husband, and her portrayal of this trait has feeling, and is
set off by an unconventional style and brisk movement. — The Book
Buyer, N. Y.

There is such a wealth of imagination, snch an exuberance of strik-
ing language in the productions of this author, as to attract and hold
the reader. — Toledo Blade.

Miss Rives is essentially a teller of love stories, and relates them
with such simple, straightforward grace that she at. once captures the
sympathy and interest of the reader. . . . There is a freshness of feeling
and a mingling of pathos and hninor which are simply delicious.— iVew
London Telegraph.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
' HARPER & BBOTHKKS will send either of the above works by 'mail,

postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on

receipt oftlte price.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES.

A Talc of the Times of Scanderbcg and the Fall of
Constantinople. By JAMES M. LUDLOW, D.D.,
Litt.D. 16mo, Cloth, $1 50.

The author writes clearly and easily ; his descriptions are
often of much brilliancy, while the whole setting of the story is
of that rich Oriental character which fires the fancy. — Boston
Courier.

Strong in its central historical character, abounding in inci-
dent, rapid and stirring in action, animated and often brilliant
in style. — Christian Union, N. Y.

Something new and striking interests us in almost every chap-
ter. The peasantry of the Balkans, the training and govern-
ment of the Janizaries, the interior of Christian and Moslem
camps, the horrors of raids and battles, the violence of the Sul-
tan, the tricks of spies, the exploits of heroes, engage Mr. Lud-
low's fluent pen. — N. Y. Tribune.

Dr. Ludlow's style is a constant reminder of Walter Scott,
and the book is to retain a permanent place in literature. — Ob-
server, N. Y.

An altogether admirable piece of work — picturesque, truthful,
and dramatic. — Newark Advertiser.

A most romantic, enjoyable tale. ... As affording views of
inner life in the East as long ago as the middle of the fifteenth
century, this tale ought to have a charm for many ; but it is
full enough of incident, wherever the theatre of its action might
be found, to do this. — Troy Press.

The author has used his material with skill, weaving the facts
of history into a story crowded with stirring incidents and un-
expected situations, and a golden thread of love-making, under
extreme difficulties, runs through the narrative to a happy issue.
— Examiner, N. Y.

One of the strongest and most fascinating historical novels of
the last quarter of a century. — Boston Pilot.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

W The above work sent b>j mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the
United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

A KING OF TYEE.

A Tale of the Times of Ezra and Nehemiah.
By JAMES M. LUDLOW, D. D. 16mo, Cloth,

Ornamental, $1 00.

The picture of the life and manners of that far-away period
is carefully and artistically drawn, the plot is full of interest,
and the whole treatment of the subject is strikingly original,
and there is a dramatic intensity in the story which will at once
remind the reader of " Ben-Hur." — Boston Traveller.

It is altogether a fresh and enjoyable tale, strong in its sit-
uations and stirring in its actions. — Cincinnati Commercial-
Gazette.

Another distinct success in the field of historical fiction. ...
Must be unhesitatingly set down as a highly satisfactory per-
formance.— Boston Beacon.

In "A King of Tyre " we live and move amid old ideas, old
superstitions, and an extinct civilization. But this vanished order
of things the author has pierced to the core, aud laid bare the
human heart that animates it all. When we say that his tale
is interesting, that it is satisfying, that it is dramatically con-
clusive, we give it high praise, yet we give it deliberately, and
are convinced that the opinion of all intelligent readers will
confirm the verdict. — Churchman, N. Y.

Vivid with the richness of Oriental habits and customs, and
the weird accompaniments of pagan worship, this tale of the
times after the return of the Hebrews to their own land, will
hold the attention of the reader with unflagging interest. Its
development shows marked ability and skill. There is an his-
torical basis to the story which gives it additional attraction. —
Living Church, Chicago.

Will enhance the reputation of the author, and can be wel-
comed as not only a novel of absorbing interest, but a faithful
study and portraiture of an eventful historical period. — Chris-
tian Intelligencer, N. Y.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

j&g~ HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above work ft?/ mail, postage
prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt
of the price.

TWO USEFUL HANDBOOKS.

EVERYBODY'S WRITING-DESK BOOK. By
CHARLES NISBET and DON LEMON. Revised and
Edited by JAMES BALDWIN, Ph.D. Square 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1 00.

This little book is at once a guide and a friend. . . . The
claim that the work will be found to comprise in one handy
volume all needful instruction and guidance on all questions
connected with writing can readily be admitted. — Philadelphia
Record.

An excellent little manual of grammar, composition, etc.,
intended "for the service of all who write." . . . This is a
thoroughly helpful and convenient book of reference. — Chi-
cago Tribune.

A capital book for the student. Its rules for composition,
grammar, and punctuation are simple and clear, and well cal-
culated to start the student to thinking. ... It is an excellent
book for the pocket or the satchel. — Chicago Inter- Ocean.

EVERYBODY'S POCKET CYCLOPAEDIA of
Things Worth Knowing, Things Difficult to
Remember, and Tables of Reference. Square
16mo, Cloth, 75 cents.

The little book is really a fascinating storehouse of " things
worth knowing " and easily discovered by reference to its
twenty-five-page index. — Critic, N. Y.

An admirable little mentor in the thousand and one things
that are forever eluding memory — things that we ought to
know in every pursuit of life. — Pi'etbytcrian, Philadelphia.

It is remarkable how many "things worth knowing and
things difficult to remember" are here crowded into small
space. He is an exceptionally curious person who cannot
here gratify his curiosity. — JV. Y. Sun.

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

JS@T The above work* are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by
the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Can-
ada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.

THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE
STAMPED BELOW

AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS

WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN
THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY
WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH
DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY
OVERDUE.

SEP 29 1932

NOV171966 s
RECEIVED

NOV25'66-llAN

U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES

CD5S257fim

U O^L

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY